Rating:

Explicit

Archive Warnings:

Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con

Category:

M/M

Fandoms:

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

Relationships:

Shane Hollander/Ilya Rozanov, Shane Hollander & Ilya Rozanov & Original Character(s)

Characters:

Shane Hollander, Ilya Rozanov, Original Characters, Yuna Hollander, David Hollander, Hayden Pike, Farah Jalali

Additional Tags:

Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Alternate Universe - Prison, Alternate Universe - Pre-Canon, Forced Proximity, Dissociation, Anxiety, Angst with a Happy Ending, Ilya Rozanov is Obsessed With Shane Hollander, Shane Hollander is Obsessed With Ilya Rozanov, BAMF Shane Hollander, Protective Shane Hollander, Protective Ilya Rozanov, Ilya Rozanov Loves Shane Hollander, Homophobia, Prisons are fucking terrible places, This was written by a prison abolitionist, POV Ilya Rozanov, POV Shane Hollander, POV Alternating, Blow Jobs, First Time Blow Jobs, First Time Bottoming, Safer sex is hard in prison, Fuck AI, Prisoner Ilya Rozanov, Prisoner Shane Hollander, Episode: s01e01 Rookies (Heated Rivalry), Autistic Shane Hollander, Shane Hollander Loves Ilya Rozanov, Depressed Ilya Rozanov, Consent King Shane Hollander, Consent King Ilya Rozanov, Panic Attacks, Smut, Angst and Humor, Hurt/Comfort, Transphobia, Transmisogyny, Jealous Shane Hollander, Possessive Shane Hollander, Racism, HIV/AIDS, Sex Education, Implied/Referenced Suicide, Minor Violence, canon-typical trauma, Queer author, Light Dom/sub, Abuse of Authority, Implied/Referenced Rape/Non-con, No one hurt in this story but they're afraid it could happen, Ilya Rozanov Has C-PTSD, Repression, Discrimination, Shane Hollander Gets Outed, Ilya Rozanov Gets Outed, Ilya Rozanov Gets Fingered, Immigration & Emigration, Hockey Player Shane Hollander, Hockey Player Ilya Rozanov, Found Family

Language:

English

Series:

Part 7 of Heated rivalry fics, Part 3 of Hollanov find community, Part 1 of Hollanov in Total Institutions

Stats:

Published: 2026-07-31 Completed: 2026-08-31 Words: 56,694 Chapters: 15/15

Stupid Canadian Jailbird

Summary

Shane and Ilya get arrested hours after Team Canada wins the World Junior Championship. From one day to the next, their lives are flipped upside down. As prisoners – er, incarcerated persons –, they are no longer climbing the hockey social ladder. They are no longer rival captains and star hockey players bearing responsibility for their nations’ and their future MLH teams’ hopes. They are nothing more than cellmates awaiting trial, caught in a tedious cycle of empty days where privacy is a distant memory. However will they pass the time?

Good thing they have each other. Now if only they could be honest about their feelings... Ideally, before they're released and face the legal and professional consequences of their venture into crime.

***

OR a fact-ridden, funny, and frustrating romance set in one of the world's least romantic and most devastating environments, courtesy of a prison scholar.

Notes

MIND THE TAGS

This is a pretext to talk about my two special interests, Heated Rivalry and the results from my dissertation. Buckle up!

There will be rough topics addressed here but I promise I'm doing my utmost to handle everything with care and in a trauma-informed way. Nothing is gratuitous or gruesome, and the hurt usually gets comforted fast. Imo the love story itself is fluffy enough to balance out the shit environment; it's def an "us against the world" type of story.

Yes, WriteAPrisoner.com by loucifer is what gave me the idea to write my own prison fic, albeit with a very different vibe. Go read their story too if you haven't already :) And donate to their fundraiser for the Innocence Project!

Chapter 1: 6 x 9

Chapter Notes

Établissement de détention de Montréal, January 12, 2010

How the fuck did I get here, Shane Hollander thinks as he stands in the doorway, staring at the space he will be living in for the foreseeable future.

His entire world has shrunk down to one bunk bed. One small desk. One chair. Two shelves. One toilet with a sink built over the tank. One aperture that only technically fits the description for ‘window’.

His new housing situation is a six-by-nine-foot room that is intended to accommodate two six-foot-tall, two-hundred-pound hockey players.

Right. Because he is bunking with none other than Ilya Rozanov, captain of Team Russia, the very same team Shane defeated at World Juniors four days ago. Ilya Rozanov, who accidentally clued Shane into the fact that he might not be as straight as he'd once assumed. Cool cool cool cool cool.

To say Shane feels tense would be an understatement.

“You want top or bottom bunk? Bottom for you, I think, yes?”

Shane finally breaks his staring contest against this room which apparently meets the minimum standard for humane housing. He glances over at Rozanov, who seems relaxed, smirking slightly like he just said something particularly clever. Shane has no idea what that could be.

“Uh, sure, whatever,” Shane answers. He tries for a polite smile – based on Rozanov’s reaction, it’s probably coming across as a grimace.

Shane tracks Rozanov’s movements as the other man tosses the stuffed pillowcase he was handed earlier, onto his bed. He shrugs out of his jacket, toes off his shoes, and gracefully hoists himself onto the top bunk. The metal bedframe shakes and groans as Rozanov flops down upon the mattress.

“Ugh,” Rozanov winces.

“What?”

“Terrible mattress. Zero stars, do not recommend. Will not be visiting these accommodations again.” Rozanov carefully enunciates each syllable in ‘accommodations’.

Shane lets out a single, slightly hysterical giggle. “Same, this might be very diva of me but I prefer accommodations that don’t come with bird shit.” He gestures at the narrow sliver of ground between the edge of their bunks and the opposite wall.

Rozanov scootches to the edge of his mattress and peers down at the floor. “Oh my god Hollander, what the fuck is this? Is how Canadians live?”

Shane shakes his head, already moving toward the so-called window. “Definitely not. It doesn’t look like there’s a screen in this window though, and whoever lived here before probably didn’t give a shit about cleaning the, uh, shit.”

Rozanov’s expression of pure disgust settles something in Shane. “Okey Hollander. Tonight we rest, was big day. Tomorrow, we clean this fucking room. We might be criminals now, but we will not live in ah, pig place on a farm?”

“Pigsty,” Shane offers, leaning against the wall across from Rozanov’s bed.

Rozanov nods graciously, accepting the correction. “We will not be living in pigsty. We are not pigs.”

“Yeah, we’re not the pigs, I’m pretty sure that’s what they call the police around here!”

“Really?” Rozanov seems delighted. “In Russia we say banshchik, means guy who works at bathhouse.”

Shane laughs despite himself. “Really? Why?”

Rozanov shrugs. “I do not know. I only know this makes my father and brother angry.”

“Are they police?”

Rozanov nods, his facial expression folding into itself and turning eerily blank. Shane decides not to push.

“You’re wrong about something though. We’re not criminals.”

Rozanov looks at Shane like he grew a third arm in the past twenty seconds. Rozanov silently gestures at the space.

“Um, we’re not criminals according to Canadian law. It’s innocent until proven guilty, and the threshold for guilt is beyond a reasonable doubt. So unless we plead guilty, or if we have a trial and they can one hundred percent prove we committed a crime, we’re legally innocent. So. We’re not criminals.” Shane clears his throat. “Yet.”

“Hollander, is no way they do not say we are guilty. So many people saw us. Like, at least twenty. Probably more. We were not subtle.”

Shane is well aware there were plenty of witnesses. He really is. But he has spent the past few days trying to convince himself that there was still hope the accusations would be dropped. To hear Rozanov be so bluntly realistic is a little bit devastating. “Let’s not talk about that,” he grits out.

Rozanov shrugs and drops down from the bed, narrowly avoiding bumping into Shane. He squeezes past. “Why is toilet so close to door, they want to watch us shit? Perverts.”

Shane freezes. He’d not spared a moment to ponder the toilet situation. There is indeed no privacy curtain to shield one from view while conducting one’s business, mere inches away from the cell’s door. A door which conveniently has row upon row of tiny holes poked into a rectangular shape, allowing guards to peer in whenever they want to.

Now that he’s faced with the prospect of baring his entire soul (his butt cheeks) in front of his rival and who knows how many strangers, Shane can think of nothing else.

“Hollander. You are having panic attack. Is not so different from taking piss next to people in locker room or bar bathroom, yes?” Rozanov pauses and waits until Shane nods his acknowledgement. “Now, are you going to turn around while I take piss or you want to look at my cock? Is very impressive, I know.”

Shane blushes violently and turns to sit on the edge of his own bunk, busying himself by shrugging out of his winter coat and staring down at his boots. These are shoes he wore to the bar last Friday, and every day since. No way is he taking these off until they’ve dealt with the floors.

Shane hears Rozanov pull the door partially shut, unzip, pee, zip, flush, and wash his hands. Shane remains in position the entire time, slightly hunched to avoid knocking his head on the top bunk.

Rozanov pauses in front of Shane. “You need it too? I will look away,” he offers.

“Um, no thanks,” he chuckles unconvincingly, peering intently at his laces. Double-knotted, of course, so his boots never slip off. It’s a matter of principle.

“You know is no problem, yes?” Rozanov continues, almost softly.

It rubs Shane the wrong way; his head snaps up, his nostrils flare, and he glares at the Russian. “Look, I’ve already been strip searched and had people take a peek at my butthole multiple times today. I’d rather wait until lights out, if you don’t mind.”

An emotion flashes across Rozanov’s face, too fast for Shane to identify it. The other man shrugs and climbs back into his bunk. The entire structure creaks, again.

Somewhere in downtown Montréal, 4 days earlier

Ilya Rozanov leans back against the bar, staring through the crowd of hockey players and puck bunnies. This year, the World Junior Championship was supposed to be held in Ottawa, but something happened and here they are in Montreal instead. Montreal, which is apparently home to Hollander mania.

Although he has not made the official roster yet, Ilya’s rival was drafted to the Metros last summer, and the city appears to have claimed him as its mascot. Ilya has seen stranger after stranger come up to Hollander to shake his hand. Ever polite, Canada’s golden boy has spent the past hour graciously signing autographs and allowing himself to be photographed. His current interlocutor is an aggressively tanned blonde, palming away at Hollander’s biceps like she’s getting paid to do so and putting a tremendous amount of effort into angling her cleavage just so. Ilya feels a stab of envy, yet he cannot seem to look away. He should probably order another vodka; this is getting ridiculous. At least the legal drinking age in Montreal is 18, whereas it would have been 19 if the tournament had been held in Ottawa. Small blessings, probably.

Hollander finally manages to disentangle himself from the woman’s manicured clutches, making his way back to his team with an unguarded air of relief.

Maybe Ilya can corner Hollander later tonight and make a move – getting his rival under him might help him get over his terrible crush, as well as the terribly crushing loss. Well, help him forget until he’s back on Russian soil at least. Then he’ll be crushed by the terrible weight of his father’s disappointment. Fun.

Ilya sighs, then tenses. Hollander seems to have gotten himself into a heated argument with Makarov, a defenseman and enforcer on Team Russia. The guy is built like a miniature mountain, standing at a whopping two meters tall, and has a reputation as a bully. He is currently looming over Hollander as the latter stubbornly refuses to back down. Ilya starts shoving his way through the crowd.

“Leave her the fuck alone,” Hollander growls. “She’s not interested.”

Ilya has gotten close enough to see and hear. He spots the woman cowering behind Hollander, her wrist still trapped by Makarov’s meaty fingers. Ilya scowls and continues to push forward.

“Otvali,” Makarov snaps. Get lost.

Hollander widens his stance, crosses his arms, and glares up at Makarov. He is kind of dazzling in his defiance, and Ilya might have noticed the butterflies in his stomach if he wasn’t so very worried.

That’s when Ilya spots it: Makarov’s right shoulder twitches as he releases the woman. Ilya has seen it happen enough times to know Makarov’s tells: the man is about to throw a punch. “Ho-,” Ilya starts to yell.

But Hollander has seen it too. Which is unsurprising, he’s probably watched hour upon hour of game tape to memorize every Russian player’s tells and avoid losing the tournament a second year in a row. Living up to his reputation as one of the fastest players on the junior hockey circuit (okay, second fastest after Ilya, obviously), Hollander knees Makarov in the crotch, catches the other man by the collar before the bulkier man folds forward completely, and throws a textbook uppercut. Ilya would be impressed if he wasn’t so uneasy.

“I said, leave her the fuck alone,” Hollander repeats sharply.

“Pedik,” Makarov spits out.

One punch is not enough to keep that motherfucker down, and Ilya knows what’s about to happen.

The thing about Ilya is that he sees everything. Improbable lanes taking shape across the ice, potential plays unfolding in his head like a game of chess, minute shifts in how humans exist within the same space.

Ilya sees everything, and he reacts within a split second. He has always been a man of action, a man whose default response to adversity is to fight back. This is how he’s survived his father’s explosive temper, and this is how he’s gotten so good at hockey.

The problem with this is that sometimes Ilya reacts before watching the plays unfold completely in the safety of his mind’s eye. In the heat of the moment, consequences exist as irrelevant abstractions.

Ilya pushes through the last of the human barrier, elbows Hollander out of the way, and punches Makarov square on the nose. Once, twice, three times.

Finally, his teammate crumples and falls to his knees, blood pouring down his face.

“Zatknis', nakhuy,” Ilya snarls. Shut the fuck up.

Ilya thinks nothing of it as Makarov slinks off. And that is the moment when what began as a potentially glorious day started turning into Ilya’s personal nightmare.

For what feels like an hour (it’s probably no more than twenty minutes), Hollander checks in with the woman and talks her down from a panic attack, before walking her back to her friend group. Ilya hovers on the sidelines, then catches Hollander’s attention.

“Is she okey?”

“She is now, I think. I hope.”

“Good. And are you okey?” Ilya asks, trying to keep the stab of anxiety from creeping into his tone.

Hollander huffs and shrugs. “Better than that guy, that’s for sure.” He looks down at his split knuckles and winces. “I should probably wash my hands.”

Ilya checks his own knuckles. “Ah, yes. Me too.”

They make their way through the crowded bar and into the bathroom. The cacophony of countless conversations and of dozens of televisions – their teams wound up in a sports bar, of course – quiets down to a more palatable murmur as they clean up in companionable silence.

“What did he say?” Hollander asks, meeting Ilya’s gaze in the mirror.

“Ah.” Ilya hesitates, glancing away. “I do not think you want to know.”

“Try me.”

Ilya bites the inside of his cheek, uncharacteristically nervous. It’s already a bad look to punch a teammate. To do so over a slur that’s thrown around in locker rooms across the globe? Fucking unheard of.

Hollander nudges Ilya’s shoulder. “Please tell me,” he asks quietly.

Ilya sighs and locks eyes with Hollander. “It means faggot.”

Hollander’s eyes widen. “You… punched him… because he called me a faggot?”

Ilya shrugs. “He knows rules. No slurs in my locker room.”

“We’re not in your locker room, though.”

Ilya finds himself fascinated with the constellations poked into the bathroom’s acoustic ceiling tiles. “Is still wrong,” he mutters. He feels uncharacteristically warm. He is not blushing, certainly not. They’re probably just blasting the heat inside this bar, stupid Canadians who can’t handle the cold.

Hollander turns to face Ilya and leans against the sink. “It is,” he whispers.

Ilya looks back down. Hollander seems to be steeling himself for pushback, now that he’s admitted homophobia is wrong. Ilya flips through his memories, thinking back to the gym they shared for one memorable hour last summer, at the end of draft day. Ilya’s perceptiveness extends to his gaydar; he’s always suspected that if he’d flirted more overtly, Hollander would have been receptive. Hollander thinks homophobia is wrong. The blips on Ilya’s gaydar grow stronger. Now is probably an excellent moment to make his move, then.

Ilya glances at the single stall: it’s empty, its sticker-covered door propped open at a slight angle. It’s just him, Hollander, and two urinals. Perfect.

Ilya’s eyes skim over Hollander’s beautiful face. Dark, straight strands gently tickling his forehead; he truly has the world’s worst haircut, so tacky it’s circled back to endearing. Warm brown eyes crowned by almost jet-black eyebrows, pulled together in a slight frown. A straight nose that has clearly never come face to face with a fist. High cheekbones bedazzled with freckles and slightly tinged by a flush. Full, delectably pouty lips which are currently parted. This is where Ilya’s gaze rests, a second, three, five, before flitting back to Hollander’s eyes.

Coincidentally, Hollander is staring right back at Ilya’s lips. His expression has morphed from disquiet into desire, and his breathing has quickened.

Ilya takes one step forward, then two. He places his palm against Hollander’s sternum, then pauses a beat. Hollander leans into the touch.

That is all the encouragement Ilya needs. He gently pushes Hollander, maneuvering his rival into the open stall. Hollander lets him, like he’s been waiting for this moment just as long as Ilya has. Hollander reaches around Ilya’s waist, pulling the stall’s door shut behind them and locking it.

Ilya’s heartrate picks up. Hollander has stayed in his personal space and is currently peering at Ilya through a veil of dark, thick lashes, breathing so heavily you’d think he wasn’t a professional athlete.

Hollander reaches around Ilya’s neck, tentatively tangling his long fingers through the blond curls. Ilya resists a shiver and leans forward, ready to capture Hollander’s lips with his own.

Until a loud knock startles them both.

“Police!”

Ilya moves before awareness catches up, unlocking the stall’s door and stumbling out to put space between himself and Hollander. He is Russian and plays a sport that is notoriously unfriendly toward queer people; he genuinely cannot get caught in homosexual action.

Two burly policemen walk in. “Ilya Rozanov?” one of them asks, his Québécois accent gliding through the syllables in a way that grinds on Ilya’s nerves less than when English speakers attempt it.

Ilya nods.

“Shane ‘Ollander?”

“That’s me.”

Ilya doesn’t dare look back, but Hollander sounds like he’s a second away from a full-blown panic attack. Fuck.

The police officer asks a question in French, and Hollander answers in the same language.

“Okay then, in English. You are both under arrest for assault against Sergey Marakov.”

The policeman drones on, but Ilya’s ears are ringing and he stops hearing whatever is happening. He loses track of time.

One blink, and Ilya is getting himself tucked into the backseat of a cruiser, joining Hollander.

Another blink, and Ilya is emptying his pockets at the police station.

Another blink, someone has shoved a corded phone into Ilya’s hand. He stares at the receiver blankly.

“To call your lawyer,” a policewoman says not unkindly.

Ilya clears his throat. “I do not have lawyer. In Canada.”

“That’s fine sweetie, I’ll get you the number for the Legal Aid emergency service. You can get a free consultation over the phone.”

Ilya tries his best to follow the conversation that ensues, digging his fingernails into his palms in an attempt to remain present. The only information he genuinely retains is to not talk to police unless he has a lawyer present.

Blink. Hollander is loudly arguing about the need for an interpreter. Why would Hollander need an interpreter? He is perfectly bilingual…

“I told you, he’s a Russian national, and this is a lot of jargon even for a native English speaker. He needs an interpreter!”

Oh.

Blink. “Unfortunately it’s Friday night and judges don’t work on weekends. You’ll stay here until Monday morning, and then you’ll go to court. Do you understand, sir?”

Ilya nods. He understands, but words feel unreachable.

Blink. Ilya is in a cell. He lies down, closes his eyes, and loses consciousness.

This is how Ilya ends his day on January 8^th, 2010, having lost both his game and his freedom in a matter of hours.

The next days pass in a blur, Ilya dipping in and out of a dissociative state of mind as he inspects his cell’s walls, which are covered with countless scribbles. On Monday morning, he and Hollander are handcuffed and unceremoniously dumped in the back of an armored transport van, along with other people who were detained over the weekend. There is not a seatbelt in sight, and everyone gets tossed around as they are driven to court.

“Are your clothes driving you nuts too?” Hollander asks, smiling wanly. He is sitting across from Ilya, looking pale and tired.

Quite frankly, Ilya had not noticed he was still wearing his outfit from going out on Friday night. He considers himself for a moment. “Ah, is more that I stink.”

“Same. I hate it,” Hollander offers, wrinkling his nose. He’s kind of adorable and it’s kind of annoying.

“Whole weekend and not even a shower – I knew Canadians were secretly uncivilized. So polite, now I know is to hide something!”

Hollander cackles and for a minute, Ilya thinks everything will be okay.

The feeling doesn’t last.

Ilya and Hollander wind up in a courthouse, sitting in an area that’s apparently reserved for the accused. Ilya’s mind wanders as they await their turn – it sounds like they’re going through everyone who’s been arrested and detained over the weekend.

Hours later, they're finally up, and the judge reads the charges against them. It’s over in a moment, and somebody wearing a black robe explains they’ll have their bail hearing the following day. Ilya and Hollander wait in the courtroom before being brought to their cells. Ilya thinks they're still in the same building, but he doesn’t bother asking. It doesn’t really matter.

On Tuesday they’re brought back to a courtroom, which is just as boring as the first time around. It’s a whole lot of talking and Ilya barely follows the gist of it; something about flight risk, maintaining public confidence in the judicial system as they are set to become public figures, and bail being denied.

Finally, Ilya and Hollander join a string of other men in the back of a transport van. The both of them, along with a handful of other men, are dropped off at an old as fuck building. They spend hours in a smelly holding cell along with twenty or so other men and a toilet that's missing its seat. Some asshole keeps up an incessant stream of chatter like he’s a fucking tour guide. Blablablah, despite the official name, everybody just calls this prison ‘Boredoh’ (later, Ilya will learn it’s actually spelled ‘Bordeaux’; fucking French people and their fuckass vowels and their stupid silent letters). Blablablah, built a hundred years ago. Blablablah, overpopulation. Blablablah, sharing cells.

Finally, Ilya is processed, which apparently is an official-sounding word for getting through a thoroughly humiliating series of events that make you feel like something less than a person. Maybe like a number. Including answering the same questions multiple times; handing over a baggie containing his wallet, keys, and whatever else was in his pockets when he was arrested; and – this is Ilya’s least favorite part – the ‘squat and cough’ at the end of the strip search. Delightful, Ilya thinks sarcastically.

Ilya is handed a pillowcase that has been stuffed with a few essentials and is told where he should go. He tries his best to make his way through the prison, but it's been a long day and Ilya didn't catch the full set of instructions through the guard's thick French accent. Ilya drags his feet, until he hears a rapid set of footsteps coming up behind him.

“Rozanov! Wait up!” It's Hollander. “What wing did they tell you to go to?”

“Ah, wing E, I think.”

“Oh! Me too. It's over there, I think.”

Ilya follows Hollander, who walks up to the sentry box and politely asks where they should go. They are both asked for their names and for the prisoner ID they'd been handed earlier.

“You're both in E-2, just go up the stairs that way,” the guard gestures.

At that, Ilya perks up considerably. “Both of us?”

The guard’s nostrils flare. “That’s what I said. If you know what’s good for you, you’ll pay attention when I talk.”

Ilya shrugs and enters wing E, finding his - their - cell on the third floor. He steps inside, then turns back to Hollander who is hovering in the doorway like a vampire waiting to be invited in explicitly.

Oh, this is going to be fun.

Well, as fun as prison can be, which is probably not that fun.

Still.

“So. Roommates,” Ilya offers nonchalantly as his heartbeat accelerates.

Hollander gulps, then nods. “Roommates,” he agrees tersely.

Chapter End Notes

*Although I have a whole ass PhD that says I'm an expert on prisons, and I have conducted fieldwork in prisons, I have never personally been incarcerated. So although this fic is very much data informed, I don't know every single thing about the logistics of being incarcerated. Also, correctional systems are notoriously obscure / don't make a bunch of info public, so for some things I spend way too much time researching only to wind up making educated guesses. Ex. For federal Canadian prisons, the minimum size for a cell that has 2 occupants is 5.4 square meters or 58 square feet. I don't know if there's a minimum in provincial prisons in Quebec, so I used the federal number to math lol. (Yeah I'm autistic shh.) Tbh I wouldn't be surprised if provincial prisons wound up double bunking in cells that are meant for a single occupant (shit that goes against human rights or standards set by the UN happens aaaall the time in prison), but ya knowwwww benefit of the doubt. Anyways and occasionally I'm fully just guessing. ALL THAT TO SAY this is thoroughly researched but likely not entirely accurate, I don't know anyone who was incarcerated or worked at Bordeaux in the early 2010s so I can't ask. This fic will still probably be much more reflective of the reality of daily life in prison than what you see on TV lol.

Chapter 2: Trust

Chapter Summary

Shane and Ilya meet a potential ally. They start the process of learning to navigate their new life, as well as their new dynamic.

Chapter Notes

CW for references to sexual assault/fear it could happen.

Also if you read chapter 1 before I posted chapter 2, you may want to go back and reread the end (starting from the morning they go to court). Basically I remembered I owned a book that contains a first-person account of what happens between getting arrested and arriving in prison (in a different one, but geographically close and also in the Québec correctional system). It allowed me to fill in a couple gaps of things I was just guessing about, so I made a few minor changes!

The book in question, if you read French: Délivrez-nous de la prison Leclerc!

Établissement de détention de Montréal / prison de Bordeaux, Wednesday January 13, 2010

Shane wakes up abruptly when a guard unlocks their cell door at 7 am. Above him, Rozanov shifts and groans.

“Fucking hell, worst night of my life,” the Russian grumbles. “Why the fuck do they turn light on every hour? Door was locked, window is tiny, is not like we can run away!”

“Maybe it’s part of how they convince people to not come back. Go to prison, get psychologically tortured by lack of sleep, swear you’ll never commit a crime again,” Shane offers drily.

Rozanov huffs and shifts before half-climbing, half-stumbling out of his bunk. He’s only wearing black boxer briefs, all golden skin and broad shoulders and well-defined muscles. Shane gulps, unable to look away.

Of course, that’s when Rozanov turns and catches Shane staring. He smirks, the arrogant asshole. “Like what you see?”

Shane sits up and starts pulling his own clothes on, ignoring Rozanov’s question. He’s not looking anymore, but the image of his sleep-rumpled cellmate, with slightly smushed curls and red-rimmed eyes and nipples pebbled by the frigid air, does something to him.

“When do you think we’ll get our other clothes and stuff?” Shane asks.

“Hollander, how the fuck would I know? Is my first time in prison too.”

Shane rolls his eyes. “Fine. I’ll ask around and figure out how to call my parents so they can drop off some of my things. At least they gave us hygiene products and we got to shower. What about you?”

“Team left my bag at police station. Lady at Admissions said I would be told when they finish processing. Did not say how long this takes.”

“Have you managed to talk to your family since Friday?” Shane asks, glancing over at Rozanov who has mostly finished getting dressed.

Rozanov tenses and his expression shutters. “No,” he answers curtly.

“Oh,” Shane says in an impressive display of eloquence. “Me neither, but the lawyer called them so they know I was arrested. They’re probably really worried, they’ll be glad when I call.” Shane stops when he notices Rozanov still looks like he’d rather be anywhere but in Shane’s proximity. “Um. Anyway. Breakfast?”

Rozanov nods, grabs the plate and cutlery that came in the pillowcase yesterday, and steps out of the cell first. There are probably around two hundred men in the common area, which is essentially a long hallway on the ground floor of a three-storey wing. There are multiple picnic-style tables set up lengthwise down the middle. Shane and Rozanov fall into line behind dozens of inmates presumably awaiting their turn at the buffet.

Thirty seconds later, they are joined by a short and wiry white guy with a godawful manbun, a face full of piercings, an impressive amount of tattoos, and a broad smile. “Eille salut les gars, z'êtes-tu nouveaux ?” Hi guys, you’re new here?

“Allô, oui on est nouveaux, mais mon ami parle pas Français,” Shane hints. Hi, yeah we’re new, but my friend doesn’t speak French.

“Oh, sorry for assuming! Hi. I’m Jérémie, you can call me Jay. Welcome to hell, I guess. First time?” Although he’s clearly francophone, Jay speaks English with only the lightest of accents.

“Hi, Jay, I’m Shane.”

Rozanov stays silent, and Shane elbows him.

“Ilya,” he nods curtly. Clearly he is not in a social mood, but he could at least be polite. What an asshole.

“Pleasure. You guys get nicotine patches when you came in?”

Shane frowns. “No, I don’t smoke.”

“Oh.” Jay turns expectantly toward Rozanov. “And you?”

“Why do you want to know?”

“Cause I’ll trade you for commissary items if you give it to me. It’s a good deal for you, it’ll take a while to set up your account and get money in it.”

Rozanov quirks his head. “And what will you do with my patch?”

Jay grins even more broadly. “Smoke it. You in?”

Rozanov ponders for a moment. “How much? At commissary.”

Shane’s attention drifts away from the conversation as they negotiate and make plans for removing the patch from Rozanov’s body. He’s kind of impressed with Rozanov, it wouldn’t have occurred to Shane to barter like that, nor to get the other party to agree to a higher price than the initial ask.

They finally get their food (bland and insufficient) and sit face to face at the edge of a table, a few seats down from other prisoners. Rozanov is just as rude to them, and Shane winds up making stilted conversation with someone who looks sixty years old but is apparently only forty-three. Shane doesn’t know what to make of this information.

During a lull in the conversation, Shane leans toward Rozanov and whispers, “You know you don’t need to be an asshole to everyone, right? This is kind of the worst place to start making enemies.”

Rozanov rolls his eyes and shoves more food into his mouth. “I tell you why back in cell,” he mutters around a half-chewed bite of toast, before washing it down with instant coffee.

Once they’ve returned to their home away from home, Rozanov takes a seat at the desk and gestures for Shane to sit on the bed. “I am rude for safety.”

Shane’s eyes widen. “What do you mean?”

“We are eighteen. We live with two hundred other guys. Most of them older. If we trust wrong person, can get dangerous very fast. You see?” Rozanov rattles off his arguments by putting up one finger at a time, starting from his pinky.

“Oh. Shit. I didn’t think about that.” Shane feels a little bit flustered over Rozanov’s casual use of ‘we’. He’s also kind of impressed with Rozanov’s street smarts.

“I know,” Rozanov huffs, his lips quirking up ever so slightly.

“So… you thought that guy Jay could be dangerous?”

“Ah, I do not know yet. But he was checking you out. And until we know his reputation, I would not trust.”

“His reputation?”

“Like, if he is rapist. If he will try to make you his bitch.” Rozanov stares pointedly and Shane feels very, very stupid.

“He’s fucking tiny and I am making a career out of fighting people on ice. I’d like to see him try,” Shane scoffs, affecting confidence. He knows full well Rozanov sees right through his efforts. “But uh. Thanks for having my back.”

“Of course I have your back.” Rozanov shrugs like this is obvious. “You are only person I know here, and also I know Canada’s golden boy is worth trust.”

“Trustworthy. How do you figure that?”

“Well, for one thing I saw you stand up to Makarov for being creep, and make sure girl was safe. So I know you have good, ah, morals. Even if punching Makarov was stupid decision.”

“What does it say about you that you made the same stupid decision?”

Rozanov ignores the dig. “And also we share same secret so…”

Shane stiffens. He knows he’s attracted to some men – Rozanov specifically – but he doesn’t even know if he’s… that. Shane can’t even bring himself to think the word. But he doesn’t like where this is going. “Is that a threat? If I backstab you, you tell people that sometimes I might want to kiss a guy?”

“Hollander, no!” Rozanov looks genuinely appalled. “I would never tell anyone. I just trust you more because, um, we are same maybe?”

Shane huffs. “I don’t, um, I don’t know if we are. But I’m…”

“Curious, maybe?”

“Yeah. Curious.” Shane busies himself inspecting his knuckles, which are healing well.

“I am too.”

“Okay but, uh, since we’re here and we’re living together in the world’s ugliest studio apartment, and we don’t know how long it’ll take until we get out, I don’t think it’s a good idea to try to be… curious… with each other… again.” Shane nervously glances at Rozanov, who purses his lips.

“Okey.”

Is that… disappointment in Rozanov’s voice? Is he bummed they won’t be picking up where they left things off last Friday? Shane doesn’t know, but he sure as shit isn’t going to ask. “Okay,” Shane nods. “I’m gonna go call my parents now, see ya.”

Shane ducks out of the cell and makes his way over to the payphones. He should probably be relieved, but he isn’t. He just feels like a coward.

“So. Why are you in here, anyway?” Ilya asks casually as Jay works the nicotine patch off his skin. They are inside Jay’s cell, and apparently it’s against the rules to visit other people’s cells, so they have to act quickly.

Jay just guffaws.

“What? Is bad to ask? Against unspoken rules?”

Jay shrugs. “I don’t know, I don’t really give a shit about the inmate code. Or any other social norms. See?” He lifts his left hand, showing Ilya two tattoos. One is the letter A surrounded by a circle, filling up the top of Jay’s hand. The other is a series of numbers across his knuckles: 1312.

Ilya has no idea what either of these tattoos mean, and Jay seems to pick up on that. “Oh, that’s the anarchist symbol. Anarchist means uh-”

“I know what anarchist means, is same word in Russian,” Ilya cuts in. He hates when people assume he’s ignorant due to his accent.

“Yeah? You into political theory?” Jay brightens, seemingly excited at the prospect. Probably some sort of nerd.

Ilya shrugs. “Am Russian. North Americans like to bring up communism, but they get confused with anarchism all the time. Had to learn difference to explain to stupid people.”

“Ah, I see,” Jay nods. “You been here long? Canada, I mean.”

“Oh, I do not live here, I only visit for, ah, work. Is second time here.”

“Really? How old are you, you look like a kid who’s been pumped full of steroids!”

Ilya is a little miffed, but keeps his emotions tucked firmly behind his Slavic mask of indifference. “Eighteen.”

“And you’re already making international business trips?” Jay whistles. “What the fuck is your job?”

It’s probably better not to talk about hockey here, it seems like the type of place where rumors would spread like wildfire, and anonymity is probably safer. “No no, you have to guess,” Ilya smirks.

Jay thinks for a moment. He’s finished the slow process of lifting the plastic and is gently removing the part that contains nicotine. “I don’t know, are you some kind of prodigy?”

Ilya chuckles. “Some have said this, yes.”

“Okay, uh. Fuck. What, you hiding a business degree somewhere in there?” Jay gestures at Ilya’s musculature. He’s done removing the nicotine and he smoothes down the plastic part so it sticks back to Ilya’s skin. “Please stand in the doorway and keep watch while I roll.”

Ilya moves before answering the question. “Ah, no. No business degree.”

“Fine. Is the mystery job how you met your friend?”

Ilya stiffens. Why is this guy asking about Hollander? “My friend?”

“Yeah, that other guy from this morning. Asian, speaks French, lots of muscles too? He called you his friend.” Jay sticks the bit of nicotine to a piece of paper. “This is a memo, by the way. You have to fill one of these out anytime you want to make a request for anything. Like to see the nurse, to be added to the waiting list for a job, that kind of thing. Prison is one big bureaucratic machine.”

“Did he? Say we are friends?” Ilya interrupts. He doesn’t give a shit about bureaucracy right now. Are he and Hollander friends? Maybe they are, now. It’s not like it would be helpful to keep pretending they’re rivals while they’re in here.

“Yeah. Isn’t he your friend?” Jay is slicing a strip of orange peel but he stops to peer up at Ilya.

“I guess so. Yes.”

“Okay. Thought maybe he was your boyfriend or something,” Jay continues casually. Now he’s rolling the makeshift cigarette.

Ilya stiffens again. “What makes you say this?”

Jay shrugs. “You looked like you were worried I’d try to steal him from you, earlier. And you looked like you were ready to set me on fire with your eyes if I even thought about it. I won’t do any of that, by the way. I’d never do anything that would make my boyfriend want to dump me while I’m in here and I can’t do anything to fix things.”

Ilya relaxes. Maybe he can trust this guy after all. “Oh.”

“Yeah, oh. That a problem for you?”

Ilya shakes his head. “No.” He thinks for a moment. Maybe he can offer up one piece of information that doesn’t put him at risk if other people find out. “I am in here for punching homophobe.” If this gets out, it might actually be good for his reputation – let other people know not to try to mess with him.

Jay grins. “Good for you. Guy probably deserved it.”

“He did.”

“You want in?” Jay gestures at the cigarette.

“Sure.”

Jay cracks the window open and does something with two batteries, a staple, tape, tin foil, and toilet paper. A small flame catches, and he lights his cigarette before passing it to Ilya. “None of what you saw me use today is contraband, unless it’s assembled into a cigarette or a lighter. So. If you do this again, make sure you remember that, unless you want a disciplinary measure.”

Ilya smokes a single puff and coughs. This is truly nasty. He hands the cigarette back over to Jay and thanks him for the information.

“Don’t tell anyone, by the way,” Jay says.

“What, about cigarette? Of course not.”

“No, about me having a boyfriend. People in here are really fucking weird about gay people, like either they get violent or they decide that means you’re interested in bottoming. Potentially without your consent.”

Ilya has watched enough television and spent enough time in all-male spaces to be unsurprised by the extents of homophobia and of rape culture. Still, this is disgusting. “I am Russian, I would not have said anyway.”

“Oh, right, I did hear Russia is pretty homophobic and unsafe. I’m… sorry?”

Ilya is not about to out himself as bisexual, even if this guy already suspects he’s queer. Once again, rumors have a way of getting around. Better change the subject, then. “Hey, you never said, what does that one mean?” Ilya gestures at the numbers on Jay’s fingers.

“Oh, imagine the first letter of the alphabet is one, the second is two, and the third is three. So 1312 stands for ACAB. And that’s an abbreviation of ‘all cops are bastards’. The pigs probably know this, but sometimes it’s good to be subtle.” Jay grins cheekily, and Ilya matches him.

Pigs. Ilya thinks of his abusive father, and of his corrupt and drug-addicted brother. They are certainly bastards. “Maybe I get this tattooed too, while I am in here.”

“Really?” Jay seems delighted. “Well, if you decide to do it, let me know, I’ll hook you up with the right people to get supplies. Fair warning though, prison tattoos are not super safe.”

“If you do this, what is in it for you?”

Jay cocks his head. “Hmm. You have to talk about political theory with me. And answer honestly if I correctly guess your job.”

Ilya smiles. “Deal.” This guy is funny. Maybe he’ll be trustworthy too, and maybe all three of them can form a coalition of closeted cocksuckers. Or a coalition of closeted cocksuckers and curious comrades.

The phone call with his parents goes about as well as Shane expects. His mom is very concerned about Shane finding himself in prison, and immediately turns into manager mode, assuring Shane she will find a top-notch lawyer. While David offers comfort, Yuna Googles aggressively.

“I’ll call the prison to confirm the procedure for getting your belongings to you, then contact your billet family in Kingston and get whatever you need. Your dad can stay there and get the rest of your things packed and moved to Ottawa. Then I’ll bring you everything you’re allowed to have, it’s not a lot I should warn you. Five tops, five bottoms, six undergarments, one pyjama and one bathrobe, one bathing suit – do they even have a pool?”

“I don’t know, mom, it’s January, it was dark outside when I got here at 6 pm. And it’s not like they gave us a tour.”

“Oh. Okay then. Four pairs of shoes, six pairs of socks, one pair of gloves, one belt, one suit, one scarf, one hat, and one coat. It also says that glasses are allowed if you get prior authorization. Oh, and no hoodies, sorry about that honey. Can you tell me everything you have right now, so I can adjust accordingly?”

Shane does so, then his mom explains that she’ll have to physically bring money or mail funds to the prison, so they deposit it into Shane’s account, which is how he will be able to make commissary purchases.

“This way you can buy a calling card and not rely on collect calls. And then you’ll be able to leave us messages if necessary and talk to your lawyer directly.”

Shane thinks about that. Rozanov will probably be unable to get anyone to put funds into his commissary account for a long while. And he won’t be able to call his parents and ask them to do so, unless he can make a phone call. Shane doubts collect calls work overseas.

“Mom, do you know if I can make an international call with one of those cards?”

“I think so, honey, why? Who do you need to call?”

“Um.” Shane blushes and he’s glad his parents can’t see. “It’s not for me, it’s for Rozanov. He’s, uh, he’s also here.”

“What! Why is Rozanov there?” Yuna sounds shocked.

“Well, uh, he also punched the guy. And now we’re sharing a cell.”

“Oh.” Shane’s mom takes a moment to digest this information. “And he hasn’t been able to reach his family?”

“No. And it seems like a sore topic, I don’t know. Figured I’d try to offer a solution.” Shane nibbles at his bottom lip, irrationally worried his parents will figure out his – attraction? Soft spot? Crush? Shane shudders.

“That’s very kind of you, honey.”

Shane returns to his cell after the conversation wraps up; Rozanov ducks inside a few minutes later.

“Hey,” Shane says. “My mom said she can reach out to your family and stay in touch with them, if you want. If that’s easier,” he offers carefully.

Rozanov stops midstride. “What?” He seems surprised and uncomfortable.

“Yeah. If you give me their contact info, I can pass it along and she can email or call them. Or you can wait until my mom drops my stuff off. Knowing her, that’ll somehow be tomorrow. She’ll put money into my account, then I can buy a calling card and you can use it.”

Rozanov’s fingers twitch. “Oh. Maybe.” He turns toward the window, making a show of looking at the ‘view’. The prison’s wings are spread out in the shape of an asterisk, and since cell E-2 is close to the center, all they can see is an expanse of brick. “Thank you,” Rozanov adds softly.

“Anytime.” Shane hides a smile although Rozanov isn’t even looking at him. “Hey, we should get supplies, and then I want to talk about Team Russia’s powerplay while we clean this fucking dump. Sound good?”

Rozanov faces Shane again and smirks. “You wish your team had better powerplay.”

Shane scoffs. “Dude. We still beat you.”

“Barely. Was overtime.”

“Fuck off, you’re just jealous I beat you in the shootout.”

They keep chirping each other amicably as they make their way out of the cell. Shane can’t help but think it’s nice.

Hours later, after lights out, Rozanov’s disembodied voice fills the space as they lie in their respective bunks.

“Hey. You know that guy from this morning, Jay?”

“Yeah, the guy you sold your patch to?”

“Yes. He is not creep.”

“How do you know?”

“Is secret here, but he has boyfriend.”

“Oh. Good.” Shane thinks for a moment. He feels – something – but he is not going to examine it right now. “Are you friends now?” he blurts.

“What Hollander, you are jealous?”

Shane snorts. “You fucking wish.”

“No, we are not friends, but maybe we will be. We will see.” Shane may not be able to see Rozanov, but he can just tell the asshole is smirking like the smug bastard he is. Shane smiles fondly.

“Rozanov. You know what I just realized?”

“What?”

“My dad is going to go to my billet house. Where he will find my dildo. And put it in a box. And bring it to my childhood home in Ottawa.”

Rozanov squawks, and they both start giggling uncontrollably.

“Oh my god, Hollander, you will kill me.”

“No killing, thank you very much, I don’t want to stay in jail any longer than I need to. Count your lucky stars.”

Rozanov chuckles and falls silent.

Yeah, this is nice, Shane thinks, moments before drifting off into a sound sleep.

That night, he does not wake up when the guards turn the lights on for their hourly rounds.

Chapter End Notes

*Regarding the street smarts thing, I’m not saying Shane is dumb, I’m saying he’s lived a more sheltered upbringing than Ilya and hasn’t yet had to contend with things like ‘sometimes the people closest to you are the absolute worst’.

*The scientific literature has a tradition of only addressing sexuality in prison through the lens of sexual violence. The main theories are rooted in homophobia and the assumption that a) everybody's straight b) straight people cannot possibly want or consent to sexual intimacy with a person of the same gender, while in prison. These theories are trash, and I want to write a story showing that it is possible to find queer love in prison, this does come through in prisoner-centric accounts after all. HOWEVER, sexual assault absolutely does happen in prison, and the fear that it will happen is completely valid. And more broadly, distrust of fellow detainees due to the expectation of violence or exploitation tends to bleed through interpersonal relationships, which tend to be tense and surface-level.

Chapter 3: Bored-eaux

Chapter Summary

Shane and Ilya discover the true meaning of boredom and have to find ways to entertain themselves.

Chapter Notes

CW references to sexual assault / fear it could happen.

Établissement de détention de Montréal / prison de Bordeaux, Friday January 15, 2010

So Shane has a problem.

He just woke up from a steamy dream involving a very naked Rozanov, only to find himself in his tiny ass prison bed, dick achingly hard.

And he can't do anything about it, otherwise Rozanov will wake up and hear what he’s up to.

Not only that, but last night they both decided to wash their crusty shirts and undergarments in the sink, laying everything out as best as possible in their cramped cell. There’s probably not enough air circulation in here for everything to dry fully, but at least they’ll have clean clothes. It’s better than nothing as Shane waits for his mom to drop off his things (which should be later today) and for Rozanov’s belongings to be processed (which really should have been done by now, what the fuck is taking so long).

So now, Shane is hard and boxer-less, and he has to wait until his boner dies down before getting out of bed.

He really, really hopes it’s nowhere close to 7 am yet.

Then he hears it – boots trudging down the hall. The sound of keys jiggling and unlocking cells, one by one. And then there it is: a click. Their cell door has been unlocked, and like clockwork Rozanov whinges and shifts in the top bunk.

Fuck.

And then Rozanov is there, on the floor, completely naked. He yawns and reaches for his underwear, and Shane can do nothing but gawk and pray fervently that his boner is hidden by the way he’s positioned his legs. He’s glad that his own T-shirt and underwear are hanging off the bunkbed ladder’s rungs, so he has a partial privacy curtain between himself and Rozanov while the latter stands under the window.

Still, Shane catches glimpses, and – Jesus Christ. Rozanov has a truly spectacular ass. As in, he could put a Kardashian sister to shame. (Shane does not really follow pop culture but he has spent enough time in locker rooms to be made aware of this family against his will.) As in, Shane wouldn’t be surprised if Rozanov disclosed he’d been scouted to become an underwear model but politely declined to pursue a hockey career. As in, Ancient Greek sculptors would probably shed tears of joy if they could reproduce his likeness.

FUCK.

Shane really needs to stop staring because this is not helping his erection. Or it’s helping, but not helping said erection go away.

“This is disgusting, everything is still wet,” Rozanov complains.

Shane clears his throat and wills himself to sound normal. “Good thing we didn’t do our jeans, then.” There. That was super casual, right? Nailed it.

“Yes, they would grow mould before they had time to dry.” Rozanov finishes dressing and notices that Shane hasn’t budged. “We go to breakfast now?”

“Oh, uh, don’t wait for me, I need to use the toilet.”

This is not an unusual request; Shane is still stingy about using the toilet in front of his ‘roommate’. Rozanov just shrugs, grabs his dish and cutlery, and slips out of the cell before sliding the door shut.

Shane furiously takes himself in hand and explodes in under two minutes, carefully aiming so his load lands on his chest rather than on the bedding. It would really fucking suck to have to explain why he washed his sheets in suboptimal circumstances, and also to have to go to sleep in damp bedding.

“Hollanderrrr, I am sure I have misheard and this prison is called Bored-eaux, not Bordeaux! Never in life have I been so bored,” Ilya whines, gesturing dramatically as he flops onto the desk chair.

“Oh no, poor you, I’m sure nobody else in history has ever been as bored as you,” Hollander deadpans.

“Be honest, Hollander, did you infect this prison with your boring?”

“I’m not boring!” Hollander sits up from where he’s been lounging in bed, immediately looking affronted. It’s only been a few days, but Ilya has already found out that riling Hollander up is one of his favorite activities.

“Hollander, your idea of good time is running through MLH team rosters and reciting every player’s statistics.”

“Not every player!” Hollander argues defensively.

His color has heightened, making his freckles more prominent. Hollander is so pretty, Ilya could spend his days just watching him exist. Well, that’s basically what he’s been doing since Wednesday, it’s not like they have anything else to do. Which brings him back to his current problem.

Ilya levels Hollander with his gaze, making sure he looks thoroughly unimpressed.

“… just the first line,” Hollander admits as he slumps back down.

Ilya grins. “But you do know every player’s statistics, correct?”

Hollander rolls onto his side, facing the wall. “Fuck off.”

“Noooo Hollander do not ignore me, is nothing else to do!”

“If you’re so bored, and I’m so boring, why don’t you just go take a walk by yourself? Or a shower?” Hollander grumbles petulantly.

Ilya’s smile falters. “Ah. Hollander. You have seen this movie, American History X?”

“Yeah. Wait. How did you see it?”

“I have Netflix account.”

“They have Netflix in Russia?”

“No, Hollander, we use VPN.” Ilya sighs. This is so irrelevant. “So you have seen this movie, yes? You remember shower scene?”

Hollander turns back to face Ilya. He has paled considerably. “You… you think we could get raped? In the showers?” He gulps.

“I do not know. I do not want to find out,” Ilya emphasizes.

“Good thing we’re not white supremacists, then. I’m half-Japanese. Pretty sure they think I’m the scum of the earth,” Hollander tries to joke.

Ilya sighs. “Hollander, I know you know is not about white supremacists. Is about risk in going to showers alone.”

“Yeah. I know. I just don’t know what to say. Is this gonna be our lives now? Spending every day worrying about getting attacked or worse?” Hollander looks away and starts pulling pieces of lint off the scratchy wool blanket on his bed.

“Maybe. Probably.” Ilya leans back in the chair to stare at the ceiling. He’s not bored anymore, he just feels completely powerless, and the weight of his new reality settles inside him like a ton of bricks. He’s spent his teenage years overhearing coaches and scouts saying he could be the best of the best, he could become a star. He could become someone, and that someone would fill the empty husk he has been since his mother’s death six years ago. Now, though, he’s back to being a nobody. First, crushed under his father’s boot and the impossible expectations Ilya could never live up to. Discipline, silence, obedience, stoicism. Second, crushed by bars in the windows and brick walls and barbed wire. In an institution that also values discipline and obedience. Where he can already feel himself losing his voice, losing his individuality, losing his spark. How the fuck is he going to make it through? It’s only day three and he’s already spiraling.

“So. That just means we should do our best not to go anywhere alone, but especially places without cameras and where we can get cornered by bullies. Like a buddy system. Right?” Hollander says.

Ilya feels some of the load he is carrying lighten at that. Not all of it, but enough to feel like he can breathe. Hollander is offering to spend most, if not all of their time together. Maybe it’s just for safety purposes, but Ilya doesn’t really care; he gets to be around Hollander, whom he’s been inexplicably drawn to for a year already. “Right. Is smart plan.” Ilya offers Hollander a small smile, hoping to convey what he can’t say: I would like that. I like being near you. Ilya tries to stop his train of thought, but he can’t: I want to be near you. All the time, if you’ll have me.

Fuck, I’m in trouble.

“Okay then let’s go!” Hollander stands and reaches for his boots.

“Go where?” Ilya feels like he missed something.

“To take a walk around the wing. You said you were bored.”

“Okey.” Ilya smiles, and so does Hollander.

“We call it ‘faire de la wing’ in French. It means like, doing the wing?” Jay explains as he walks alongside Shane and Rozanov.

The three of them have spent the past hour ambling down the walkway lined by cell doors on the west side of the wing’s top floor, then back the way they came and down one flight of stairs. Repeat on the middle floor. Descend to the bottom floor and walk the three sides of the rectangle formed by the common area. Up one flight on the east side, down the walkway and back. Up to the top floor, down the walkway and back. Rinse and repeat. The loop is endless and mind-numbing and if Shane thinks about it too long, about spending weeks or months having nothing to do but this, he is going to scream and throw himself on the ground and do something that undermines all of the effort his mom has put into building The Shane Hollander Brand. Such as tear all his clothes off and rock back and forth while sobbing like a newborn infant.

At least Jay is keeping up a steady stream of chatter, and it seems to have pulled Rozanov out of his head. It would be really nice if that worked on Shane too, but The Thoughts™ rapid firing through his brain have always been so very loud.

Shane tries to tune back in, it seems like Jay has spent the last few minutes playing the guessing game he initiated a few days ago, trying to find out Shane and Rozanov’s job. Jay is getting more and more creative, while Rozanov seems increasingly amused.

“Okay final one for today and then I give up. Shane, you said you were Japanese, right?”

Shane smiles tightly. “Half, yeah. On my mom’s side.”

“Okay so Ilya is Bratva and Shane is Yakuza. You’re both in Montréal on official organized crime business.”

Shane cringes, meeting Rozanov’s eyes. Something unspoken passes between them.

“You know is offensive to assume someone is criminal because of race or where they come from, yes?” Rozanov says mildly. He almost sounds bored, but Shane knows better; the perks of having spent most of their time together for days now. There is a slight edge to Rozanov’s tone.

“Yeah, and just because Russians are always villains in movies, doesn’t mean that’s real. Except this guy when he’s hungry,” Shane chirps.

Rozanov snorts, while Jay has the decency to look mortified.

“This is true. Do not stand in way of me and my breakfast.”

Jay has the decency to look mortified. “I’m sorry, that’s really not what I meant.”

Shane doesn’t really want to hold this guy’s hand through processing his feelings about relying on shitty stereotypes, opting to send a lifeline instead. “You’re way too interested in our jobs, what do you even do for work?”

Jay seems even more uncomfortable now. “I’m in university,” he answers shiftily.

Shane glances at Rozanov, who is frowning slightly. He’s also noticed something’s off, then.

“Cool. Uh, do you know when we’ll get to leave the wing today?” Shane asks.

“Nah. Whenever they call.”

Finally, finally, finally there’s something other to do than go on the world’s most boring walk. Ilya is so excited about yard time, he’s practically bouncing. Is it cold as fuck? Yes. Is the yard shit? Yes. Can he see the gallows where people on death row used to be hung? Also yes. Is it creepy as fuck? Yes, but Ilya is too happy to spare a single fuck as he cranes his (thankfully unsnapped) neck and admires the stormy January sky.

The gallows at Bordeaux prison

“I wish they hadn’t put yard time and gym time at the same time,” Hollander mumbles, chin tucked into his scarf, staring at his feet and kicking up brownish slush. Jay explained that by law, they were entitled to one hour of yard time every day, except the law probably didn’t say anything about double-booking. Which means the only activity they’ve had access to all day is this: an hour under the graying skies, which will definitely be dark before said hour is up. That is how it was yesterday, which is also when Ilya found out there is no light in this yard, and that they are locked in here until the guards come back at the end of the sixty minutes.

“Time, time, time, time. I hoped you would help me learn more English words, but you are very bad at vocabulary, Hollander.”

As expected, Hollander rolls his eyes. “Wow, vocabulary. Big word for you.”

“Look at you making fun of poor immigrant. Who knew Canada’s golden boy was so rude,” Ilya chirps.

“You really need to stop calling me that. Also, I’m technically a second-generation immigrant. And you don’t even live in Boston yet.”

“If I ever do move to Boston,” Ilya blurts. “Who knows what league will do about us. Or if country will give visa to a criminal.” It’s Ilya’s turn to kick up slush.

Hollander abruptly stops moving. “Fuck, I didn’t even think of that. Can you ask your agent when we have the card thing for the phone?”

We. Ilya likes the sound of that. “Ah, I do not know his number.” He pauses dejectedly. “And I do not know if he is still my agent.”

“Okay, well, I’ll ask my mom, and if your agent has dumped you, she can find you a new one too. She’s, like, the best. She can probably find you some sort of immigration lawyer too, to help with visas when you get out.”

Ilya is touched that Hollander immediately jumped into problem-solving mode on his behalf. He’s not sure how he feels about accepting help from Hollander’s mom, but maybe he needs to. “I might need this now,” he admits, still staring intently at the ground. “Is expired now. My visa.”

“Shit, I didn’t realize. It only covered you for the tournament?”

Ilya nods. “I do not know what this means, or if they will deport me,” he chokes out, forcing the words past the knot in his throat. Ilya looks up when Hollander grabs his arm.

“I’ll help you, okay? You don’t have to figure this out by yourself.” Hollander’s eyebrows are pinched together and he looks devastatingly earnest.

“Okey,” Ilya whispers.

Hollander squeezes Ilya’s bicep then lets go. Ilya instantly misses the warm fingers, feeling untethered. I wish I could touch him too, he thinks before chastising himself. Hollander does not want that, and of course Ilya will respect his wishes.

Saturday January 16, 2010

“Hollander stop it, you are making me dizzy,” Rozanov drawls from where he lies on the top bunk.

Shane freezes. It is almost 10 am and they have been locked inside the cell since 7 last night. He has spent the past twenty minutes pacing in the cramped space, trying to work up the courage to use the toilet in front of Rozanov. He hasn’t peed since right before bed and both his bladder and his gut might burst, the latter because of the terrible approximation for ‘food’ they had at dinner. “I, um. I really need to use the toilet.”

“So do it,” Rozanov gestures impatiently.

Shane knows this is what he needs to do, but he’d still like to hold on to the last shred of his dignity and not take a shit in front of the hot guy he’s been having wet dreams about. “I will,” he grits out.

Rozanov sighs and props himself up on his elbows. “Hollander, remember when I said I trust you?”

“Yeah.”

“Well, you can trust me to look away and pretend I see, hear, and smell nothing.”

Shane is mortified that Ilya brought up odors. And sounds. He wishes he could spontaneously combust right about now, that would solve all of his problems including those that involve the law and his digestive track.

He sighs and rubs his flushed cheek. They’ll be locked in this cell for who knows how long; this unexplained prolonged stretch of cell time is bound to happen again; might as well get used to pooping in front of Rozanov.

“Fine. But you’re not allowed to make jokes about this, and if you ever bring up the toilet situation or my bodily functions in front of anyone in or out of prison, I will end you.”

Rozanov chuckles. “Okey, Hollander, but is really no big deal.”

“Shane.”

“What?”

“Look, if you’re going to be smelling my shit, might as well call me Shane.”

“Okey, Shane. If this is standard, you should already be calling me Ilya too.”

Shane conducts his business while Roz– no, Ilya – keeps up a running commentary the entire time. Shane finds himself laughing and relaxing, and it’s not even that weird. Okay no it is weird, but it’s also surprisingly easy to shoot the shit (hah!) with Ilya.

A few minutes later, their door is unlocked.

Sunday January 17, 2010

They are once again trapped in the cell, and it has been over fourteen hours by now. Ilya is just about ready to lose his mind from the excess energy coursing through his veins. There is a near-constant undercurrent of boredom tinging his days, but that does not make it any more tolerable.

“Hollander,” he calls out abruptly. “Help me train.”

“What?”

“Help me train.”

Shane looks at Ilya blankly. “Uh, how are we going to do that?”

“I use your bodyweight to do exercises. This way is not too easy. And then you do it. Whoever does most reps wins.”

Shane perks up at the prospect of competing. “Oh you’re so on!”

Shane pulls his jeans off to increase his range of motion, while Ilya changes into sweatpants and a compression shirt – he’s glad his belongings were finally processed.

First they decide to try benching. They agree that since the cell’s width is almost exactly the same as their height, whoever is getting lifted needs to be positioned lengthwise to avoid head injuries, while the lifter will be positioned crosswise. Unfortunately, the bed is bolted to the wall so they can’t move it to clear some space, while moving the desk away from under the window would change nothing as neither of them would have enough wingspan to lift the other. Ilya winds up lying down across the cell, legs under the bed. Unfortunately it’s too low relative to the ground, so he can’t plant his feet and put his knees up. They give up.

Then they try squats. Shane loops his arms around Ilya’s neck and hops onto his back. Hollander then hitches his legs around Ilya’s waist, clinging like a backpack. Or maybe an overgrown koala. Hands tucked under Shane’s knees, Ilya squats until his legs starts to tremble. Then they switch, and Hollander beats Ilya by ten entire squats thanks to his massive thighs. It’s so hot Ilya is worried Shane will feel his heartrate pick up.

They take a break, then switch to push-ups. Hollander goes first this time, with Ilya’s chest pressed against his back, arms wrapped around him, toes propped on the cement floor. When Shane finally collapses, he is stuck in a sandwich between Ilya and the floor. Ilya really should not be enjoying this quite so much.

They switch. Although feeling Hollander's hot breath on his ear is distracting, Ilya is feeling good, close to beating Shane's number of push-ups. And then he feels it. Shane is undeniably hard against Ilya’s ass. Well.

Ilya lowers himself to the ground, and Hollander immediately stumbles off and stands.

“S-sorry!” Shane’s voice is tinged with panic.

Ilya rolls onto his back and scans the other man. Hollander is beet red, looks like he would do anything to escape this cell, and is sporting a frankly impressive erection straining against the thin cotton of his briefs.

Ilya licks his lips and considers his options:

1. Spend forever denying this happened;
2. Laugh it off, maybe tease Hollander about it;
3. Seize the moment and revisit Hollander’s stance on keeping things platonic.

As if Ilya would pick anything other than option 3.

Ilya stretches his toes out and nudges Shane’s ankle. This catches Hollander’s attention, and Ilya makes sure those beautiful brown eyes stay locked on his; he slowly moves his right hand and grabs his own cock, which has started tenting his sweats. Shane inhales sharply and does nothing to move away, nor does he interrupt. Good.

Ilya drags his left hand up, lifting his compression shirt to expose his abs. Hollander is gaping like he’s never seen anything quite so enthralling – Ilya feels desirable and powerful, and he could so easily get addicted to the thrill of it. Shh. Focus.

Ilya’s left hand pursues its journey north, over the ridges of his abs and the slopes of his pecs. He caresses then pinches a nipple, moaning softly as Shane takes an involuntary step forward. Ilya finally starts working his right hand, which has remained wrapped around his dick through layers of fabric. Shane looks about a second away from dropping to his knees and taking over. Excellent.

Then Hollander shakes himself out of his stupor. “Not now,” he chokes out.

Ilya immediately stops, feeling a stab of worry. Has he misread the signs? Did he push too far?

“After dark,” Shane clarifies, blushing furiously as he reaches for his jeans and pulls them on.

Ilya grins wolfishly. Finally something to look forward to in this godforsaken place. Maybe prison won’t be quite so boring after all?

It’s a good thing Hollander retained some presence of mind because less than five minutes later they finally hear the screw coming down the walkway, unlocking cell doors.

Chapter End Notes

It took how many days before they agreed to be co-dependent? Lol

Also if the smutty bits are terrible please don't tell me, I'm still recovering from the shame of my mother telling me off for writing about a heated gaze when I was 12 years old.

Chapter 4: Learning

Chapter Summary

Shane and Ilya start learning how to pleasure each other. They also learn about prison theory, practical considerations, and discrimination.

Chapter Notes

Établissement de détention de Montréal / prison de Bordeaux, Sunday January 17, 2010

As soon as their cell is unlocked, Shane escapes; in part because he’s terrified of what almost just happened, and in part because if he stays around Ilya, he may very well jump the Russian’s bones right then and there.

Shane’s thoughts are tinged with hysteria as he recalls informing Rozanov they wouldn’t be exploring each other’s bodies. That was what, four days ago? And now all Shane can think of is slamming Ilya against their cell’s wall and finding out how he tastes by kissing him and licking his abs and sucking his nipples and finding out how he smells by nuzzling his bulge and finding out exactly how much Ilya is packing because after the fucking show he was just blessed with he really, really, really needs to know.

Okay maybe not against the wall though, the shelf on the non-bunk side of the cell is probably too low for that. The door, then? Right next to the toilet though, ugh, that’s not sexy at all. Under the window and next to the desk might work, that’s probably a good plan, let’s run with that.

Okay and then Shane also wants, no, needs to find out how Ilya’s dick tastes, he might die if he doesn’t. And he might die once he does, Shane has a premonition that whatever happens tonight will be beyond anything he’s experienced in the sexual arena. Shane has certainly never had these kinds of thoughts about his ex-girlfriend Jessica.

Alternately, Shane might puke from anxiety, and if that happens with Ilya around there is a zero percent chance that it’ll be conducive to sex so. That could be a cop-out. Not that Shane wants to cop out. Or maybe he does. FUCK why is this so hard.

Because you got hard and Ilya got hard and tonight you’ll get hard again but together and with touching involved and it’s going to be super hot, his brain unhelpfully supplies.

Shane spends most of the day hanging out with Jay and a group of other people, first at a table in the common area, then in a frozen huddle in the yard, as there are only two tables and they've already been claimed. He doesn’t trust Jay since the man was too weird over admitting he’s in university. Still, staying busy (or as busy as one can be in an institution where there is basically nothing to do) and far from Ilya keeps Shane from spiralling any further.

Shane occasionally shoots a nervous glance at Ilya and usually finds him staring. Every time their eyes meet Rozanov’s gaze is unbearably heated, prompting Shane to blush and to look away almost immediately. In one instance, Shane’s eyes dart back once more, and Ilya fully winks. Ugh! Rozanov is infuriatingly hot and cocky and Shane wants to slap the smirk off that smug face, and maybe also make out with said smirk until he absorbs some of that confidence by osmosis.

That night, Shane is brushing his teeth when the screws come by, locking cells and turning the lights off. Shane once again finds himself incredibly annoyed that the light switch is outside the cell. He finishes in the partial dark – the wing’s walkways are still lighted, but not enough to convincingly filter through the series of holes that form the cell door’s ‘window’. Shane brackets the sink with his arms, centering himself and leaning as close as possible before aiming and spitting out the foam. Over the past few days he’s learned from his mistakes; guessing leads to cleaning dried toothpaste spittle in the morning.

Once he’s done, Shane reaches an arm out and takes a few steps until his hand meets the bunk’s frame – another lesson learned – and he takes a seat on the edge of his bed, feet planted on the ground. His heartrate increases and Shane forces himself to inhale and exhale slowly, hoping to ground himself.

“You still want?” Ilya murmurs a minute later. He’s been giving Shane space – well, as much as is possible given the square footage of their cell – by remaining silent and tucked out of the way on the top bunk.

Shane gulps. “Yes,” he breathes.

The bed groans as Ilya makes his way down, landing a foot away from Shane.

“I thought you had changed your mind,” Ilya admits, still whispering, still too far from Shane.

Shane wordlessly reaches, homing in on Ilya’s body heat. Shane’s hands find Ilya’s hips and he rests his fingers there, tentatively running his right thumb over the bone. Shane drags himself up and steps into Ilya’s space as his heart beats an arhythmic tattoo. Ilya wraps his muscular arms around Shane’s back and tugs until there is less than an inch between them.

“I didn’t,” Shane mumbles. He can feel Ilya’s warm breath caressing his lips, and he is so close to Ilya but still too far. Overtaken by want, Shane closes the gap. They both gasp at the first press of their mouths against each other’s, and Ilya’s arms tighten until their bodies are sealed together from chest to pelvis.

They’re kissing, and kissing, and kissing, and kissing, and Shane feels delirious with lust. His fingers dance up and down Ilya’s naked back – of course the man is only wearing boxers, what else is new, not that Shane minds, he really doesn’t – and Ilya instinctively arches into the touch, accidentally grinding their crotches together. Shane groans, and Ilya’s tongue slips into his mouth, and Shane clings to the nape of Ilya’s neck in case his knees buckle. Ilya’s long fingers slide up under the hem of Shane’s t-shirt; the same one he’s been wearing and washing in the sink for over a week now. Rozanov tugs up, up, up until Shane gets the memo and pulls the offending (and slightly fragrant) garment off.

Kissing Jessica never felt like this, he thinks distantly as he catches Ilya’s bottom lip with his teeth and tugs a little bit. Ilya moans and it’s too much; Shane slides to his knees, mouthing at Ilya’s right nipple on the way down. Shane presses his face to Ilya’s crotch, ravenously inhaling the other man’s musk. Consumed by desire, Shane desperately tugs at the briefs standing in the way of what he needs, but Ilya catches his wrist.

“You have done this before? With man?” Ilya rasps. He sounds out of breath.

“No,” Shane sighs. “You?”

“Yes but is risky in Russia, so only once.”

Shane nods. He’s glad Ilya doesn’t have that much more experience, maybe Shane won’t seem quite so green. “Okay. So, can I blow you now?”

Ilya chuckles. “So eager.”

“Not so loud!” Shane chastises lowly.

“Yes, yes, I know. Yes you can blow me now.”

Shane all but rips Ilya’s boxers the rest of the way down and surges forward, running his tongue along the first strip of flesh he can find in the dark. It’s Ilya’s thigh, and Shane follows it until his cheek meets Ilya’s rigid length. Shane turns to mouth at its root, while its slickened head catches along Shane’s clavicle. Shane grasps Ilya’s cock and slides it against himself, and Ilya hisses at the sensation.

Consumed by yearning, Shane pulls Ilya’s foreskin back and licks up the underside of his erection, then flicks his tongue at the chevroned junction between the shaft and the head. He wraps his lips around the bulb and experimentally suckles, before voraciously swallowing down as far as he can. Ilya keens and grips Shane’s hair. Shane’s mind goes quiet as he instinctively finds a rhythm, mouth and fist working in tandem.

Ilya’s breathing gets increasingly ragged. “Shane, I will come,” he warns frantically.

Shane sucks harder and faster, determined to see this through. Ilya shatters all too soon, folding forward and crying out as he erupts. Shane swallows as best he can, choking a little bit as Ilya’s dick pulses and pulses and pulses. Finally, Ilya pulls Shane off and drags him to his feet, grabbing his jaw and desperately crushing their mouths together. Shane is winded, his teeth keep clacking against Ilya’s, and he can barely breathe with their noses smashed together, but it doesn’t matter; what matters is their tongues caught in an impassioned tango, the saltiness of Ilya’s spend still lingering on Shane’s tastebuds. It’s probably Shane’s new favorite flavor.

Ilya finally pulls back and Shane catches the gleam of his eyes, now that the moon has risen. “Get on bed,” Ilya urges, and Shane immediately lies down. Ilya follows, propping himself up on his elbows to avoid squashing Shane.

Shane pulls Ilya down the rest of the way, then whines when Ilya tries to take his weight off once more. “Stop that, you can’t hurt me,” Shane breathes into Ilya’s ear.

“Fuck,” Ilya groans as he gives up, flattening Shane into the disgustingly thin mattress.

Ilya presses kisses along Shane’s jawline and neck. Shane moans and tries to squirm, and he can’t, and it’s the best feeling in the world. Shane clings to Ilya instead, one hand pressed between the other man’s shoulder blades and one holding onto his curls.

Ilya tries to slide down and swears when he bangs his heels under the desk at the foot of the bed. “Stupid fucking child-sized beds, stupid fucking cell,” he grumbles.

Shane tenses at the reminder that they’re in prison and a guard might peek in at any moment. If that happens and the screw knows who they are, he might sell the news to a tabloid, and then there go their entire careers. If there’s even anything  to go back to once everyone knows they’re criminals. Shane realizes he hasn’t asked his parents about the media, and he really should get on that.

“Hey, hey, Shane, what is wrong?”

“The guards. They might come back,” Shane admits, worrying at his bottom lip.

“I will listen for them, okey? You just trust me and let go.” Ilya run his hand up and down Shane’s ribs, and Shane melts into the touch.

“Okay,” Shane whispers.

“Good.” Ilya rolls off the bed, and Shane mourns the loss. “Sit on edge of bed,” Ilya instructs.

Shane complies and he’s back in the same position he started in, now clad in only his briefs. Ilya kneels between Shane’s legs, edging closer and running his hands over Shane’s thighs.

“Good?” Ilya asks.

“Good,” Shane confirms. And then Ilya latches onto Shane’s nipple, hand squeezing his pec. “Aaah,” Shane cries out, head falling back.

“Shhh not so loud,” Ilya mumbles around Shane’s bud.

“You’re one to talk,” Shane snipes. Ilya quietly resumes the journey down his body, nibbling and licking and sucking as if craving his taste just as much as he craves Ilya’s.

Once Ilya is done lavishing Shane’s upper body with attention, he slides his thumb under the waistband of Shane’s briefs and wordlessly tugs. Shane leans back and raises his hips, and his painfully stiff cock is freed a moment later. Shane moans as Ilya presses open-mouthed kisses all the way down the bobbing length, then laves his way back up. Shane’s breath stutters when Ilya tongues at his leaking slit, and he yelps once Ilya swallows around him.

Ilya pinches Shane’s thigh, but Shane is too lost in ecstasy to interpret this as a warning. Ilya sets a punishing pace and when Shane lets out another loud moan, Ilya stuffs the balled-up briefs into his gaping mouth. Shane lets out a muffled groan, so dizzy with arousal he might very well pass out.

Ilya fondles Shane’s balls as he sucks, then shoves a finger past Shane’s lips and around the makeshift gag, prompting a wanton sound. Ilya drags his spit-slicked finger back out and presses it once about halfway down Shane’s taint, and it’s too much – Shane jolts and spills into Ilya’s willing mouth.

Ilya’s cheek rests against Shane’s hammering heart. They’ve found their way back into the tiny bunk, too winded to do anything more than press the occasional kiss to whichever part of the other person’s body is closest. Ilya feels satiated, and he would love nothing more than to fall asleep like this. Unfortunately there will likely be another round soon, so he can only stay a few more minutes.

“Do you have a girlfriend back home?” Shane asks suddenly.

Ilya instantly pushes himself up. “You think I would do this if I had girlfriend? You think I would cheat on someone?” Ilya asks, both astonished and offended.

Shane shrugs. “I don’t think so, at least I hope not, but I just realized I know almost nothing about your life back in Russia.”

Ilya huffs and lowers himself back onto Shane. “I have never had girlfriend. Or boyfriend,” he clarifies, nuzzling against Shane’s muscular pecs.

“Oh.”

Suddenly Ilya really needs to know whether Shane is dating anyone. “How about you?” he asks, pinching Hollander’s bicep.

“Ow stop that.” Shane half-heartedly slaps at Ilya’s hand. “No girlfriend.” Shane pauses. “Anymore.”

“Oh. Why anymore?”

Shane shifts a little bit. “I broke up with her last summer.”

Ilya stills. “Last summer?”

“Yeah.”

“Last summer when?”

Shane squirms a little bit, and Ilya rolls over so his hips pin Hollander down.

“June,” Shane mumbles.

Ilya’s heart flutters. “Was after draft,” he states.

Shane stays silent for a beat, then sighs. “Yeah.”

Ilya grins in delight and can’t help but enthusiastically kiss Hollander again. A few minutes later they hear the clunking and jingling announcing the screws’ rounds, and Ilya peels off to his own bunk.

Once the danger has passed, Shane’s voice floats through the quiet cell. “Do you want to go again?”

Ilya wordlessly stumbles out of bed once more.

Monday January 18, 2010

At breakfast, Ilya is still riding the high from getting his hands all over Hollander’s body last night. They keep catching each other’s eyes and attempting to stifle smiles. He’s also lent Shane some clothes, and the sight of Shane swallowed by the slightly oversized garments makes him feel something. Shane looks so cozy, Ilya wants to drag him back to bed and keep him there the entire day.

“What’s gotten into you two?” Jay asks around a mouthful of porridge.

Shane tenses. “We are plotting your demise,” Ilya says dismissively.

Jay cackles and lets it go. Shane relaxes but studiously keeps his eyes trained away from Ilya.

“Hey, your stuff finally get processed, Shane?” Jay gestures at Shane’s outfit with his spoon. Ilya uncharitably wonders whether Jay is prodding on purpose, trying to get Shane to freak out. Ilya feels a surge of protectiveness, but his sharp retort is interrupted when Hollander speaks up.

“Oh, no, Ilya took pity on me and lent me these so I have something clean to wear to the Accueil session today,” Shane explains. Accueil is a week-long orientation session which every new inmate apparently goes through, and it’s starting today. Ilya is looking forward to understanding what the fuck is up with life in prison a little bit more.

“Oh, uh, don’t let the guards catch you,” Jay warns. “They’re pretty strict about how many items of clothing everyone has and about not sharing or exchanging belongings. I think it’s about trying to prevent any sort of trading or bartering. Like so there’s less conflicts, or less risk of trafficking drugs or other stuff we’re not allowed to have in here. Or maybe it’s just about controlling every aspect of our lives so we have zero autonomy and we forget we’re people, and then they can just bully us into doing whatever they say. Who the fuck knows.”

Ilya ponders this a moment. “Say more about last part. Controlling everything so we obey.”

Jay perks up. “Okay so, have you guys heard of Michel Foucault?”

Ilya and Shane shake their heads.

“Okay so in the 70s Michel Foucault, or MichMich as I like to call him, was a French philosopher who wrote this book called Surveiller et punir. Uh, I think it’s Discipline and punish in English. It’s a 300-page book that covers a lot of things, but his basic argument starts like this: corporeal punishment is the way we used to deal with crime. Like public floggings or disembowelment, that kind of stuff. And then we moved away from that and to having prisons be our default sentence. There’s been a lot written about how that shift was cause Western societies got more into humanism, but MichMich was like: nope try again. His argument is that prisons are just one example of this new way of controlling the masses, which he calls discipline. Basically prisons and a bunch of other institutions like schools, the military, convents, and so on, enact discipline by cutting up everything into smaller, more manageable chunks that are easier to control. Like cutting up the prison space into wings and then into cells or having extremely detailed schedules that never change. Or factory workers on an assembly line who do the exact same, super precise job hundreds of times per day, every day. Anyway once time and space and the body’s labor are all chopped up like that, it’s easier to make people be docile and useful and to optimize surveillance and control. You see?”

Ilya glances over at Shane, who seems just as lost as he is. “What do you mean, optimize surveillance and control?” Shane asks.

“Well, it’s like here. There are way more inmates than guards, but the way they’ve set up the building and the rules and everything, they control us without even touching us most of the time. They have the control tower and security rooms and checkpoints and cameras, so they can see and manage everything that’s happening while we can’t even see them or be sure how many of them are on duty. It’s like the most efficient way of controlling a bunch of people without seeming too evil. Except what all those theories about making prison more ‘humane’ forget to say, is that even though we’re not physically getting hurt most of the time, we experience psychological pain the whole time we’re in prison. Cause we’re so deprived of everything – freedom, our loved ones, basic commodities, physical touch and intimacy, safety – that we’re just suffering our way through our sentences. That’s an important theory by another guy, Sykes: he calls it the pains of imprisonment.” Jay abruptly stops rambling, looking sheepish.

Indoor control tower at Bordeaux prison

“You learn this in school?” Ilya asks shrewdly.

Jay ducks his head. “Um, yeah.” He spoons tepid porridge into his mouth, effectively ending the conversation.

Ilya glances at Shane, who makes a facial expression communicating something like, “What the fuck is wrong with him and school?!” Ilya grimaces, he has no fucking clue.

After breakfast, a guard’s tinny voice comes through the loudspeaker. “Hollander, Rozanov et Jean pour l’Accueil. Hollander, Rozanov et Jean pour l’Accueil.” Ilya frowns at Hollander, waiting for a translation. He wishes the guards made announcements in English, but no such luck; this is Quebec, and the entire institution seems hellbent on reminding Ilya that the official language here is French.

“They’re calling us to go to orientation, along with someone else,” Shane explains.

They drop their dishes in their cell and make their way to the wing’s gate, where they’re joined by a pretty young woman with an impeccably styled afro. Ilya has seen her around before but in a sector with over two-hundred inmates, they haven’t yet met properly.

“Hello, I am Ilya,” he introduces himself.

“Gabrielle Jean,” the woman answers, smiling brightly.

“Shane,” Hollander nods. “You’re new here too?”

“I am.”

“I’m sorry if this is rude, but… I thought this was a men’s prison?” Hollander continues.

Gabrielle laughs. “Tell that to the Ministère de la sécurité publique. They do not recognize trans women as women, it is like I am home in Haiti all over again.”

“Oh, uh… I’m sorry,” Shane says awkwardly.

“Their stupidity is our gain,” Ilya offers charmingly, and Gabrielle giggles. Ilya is thrilled to catch Shane scowling.

A guard escorts the three of them out of the sector, through a security checkpoint and into a smaller building, dropping them off at some sort of classroom. Ilya sits between Shane and Gabrielle, and orientation starts shortly thereafter. Of course everything is in French, so Shane dutifully translates into Ilya’s ear until Gabrielle offers to take over. Shane seems displeased but allows it.

Over the next few hours, a variety of prison staff cycle through. Most are social reinsertion personnel rather than guards. Ilya learns there are around 1300 men held in Bordeaux (plus Gabrielle and possibly other trans women, he mentally adds). There are 6 wings, each holding around 200 people, except most of them have been remodeled and are nothing like wing E. These modernized wings are subdivided into multiple smaller sectors that each hold around 35 people.

Ilya doesn’t really learn much else that a) is useful b) Jay hasn’t told him already. The one crucial piece of information is that apparently, people in pre-trial detention like he and Shane are not eligible for most activities, except work or school (if they send in memos to get on the waiting lists), along with religious stuff and yard and gym time. Staff explain that the majority of activities like the anger management program or group therapy focus on social reinsertion. The logic is that those who haven’t yet been found guilty of a crime cannot be socially reinserted, since they might be innocent. Therefore they are precluded from those programs and activities until sentencing. Ilya thinks this is really stupid, clearly if they’re kept in here ahead of trial that means the judge thought they probably did something wrong, might as well use the time to work on their issues. But no! That would be an efficient use of everyone’s time, why would they even do that. Optimize my ass, Ilya thinks, remembering Jay’s speech about discipline.

Then Ilya, Shane, and Gabrielle are escorted back to the sector for the lunch break.

“So. How long have you two been together?” Gabrielle asks casually, gesturing with her fork.

Ilya nearly chokes on the flavorless paste in his mouth. “What do you mean?”

Gabrielle pointedly stares at the lack of space between Shane’s and Ilya’s shoulders. Shane shifts away, creating the barest of gaps between their bodies.

“We’re not. Together,” Shane mumbles unconvincingly, staring at his plate of unappetizing food.

Gabrielle grins knowingly. “Okay, so how long have you been fucking then?”

Neither of them answer but Shane’s blush is all the confirmation Gabrielle needs.

“Forgive me for asking, but you have makeup in here?” Ilya asks in a bid to redirect the conversation.

She snorts and rolls her eyes. “Ah, no. They do not sell makeup at commissary in men’s prisons, which is stupid – the prison for women, Maison Tanguay, is right outside. And one of my friends said that even for the women, they do not sell beauty products intended for Black women’s complexion or for our hair. So I use things like cocoa powder and red Jell-O powder and coconut oil.”

“Ah, must be why you smell so delicious, then,” Ilya winks. Shane glowers beside him, and Ilya loves that Hollander is so obviously jealous. It makes him want to flirt with abandon so he can get another reaction out of Shane.

Of course, Gabrielle catches the shift in Shane’s mood. “Relax, I am not interested in stealing your man. I am going to find myself a different prison boyfriend. Or a girlfriend, if there is another doll in here.”

Shane doesn’t acknowledge Gabrielle’s comment, but he does manage to make polite – if stilted – contributions to the conversation every so often.

“I think he might be defrauding student loans or something,” Shane volunteers. It’s after lights out, they had sex again, Ilya is spooning him, he feels cozy, and his mind has been drifting back over the events of the day.

Ilya stops running his hand over Shane’s ass. “What?”

“Jay. He’s so weird about school.”

“Maybe. I do not think I can trust him.”

“Me neither. But I don’t mind being like, allied with him. If we keep him at arm’s length.”

Ilya nods against the back of Shane’s neck. “Yes. He can be conditional member.”

“Conditional member of what?” Shane asks. He’s distracted by Ilya’s lips and hot breath against his earlobe.

“Ah. Conditional member of coalition of closeted cocksuckers and curious comrades. Or,” Ilya pauses, “I guess is just coalition of closeted cocksuckers now, since we now know you like sucking dick.”

Shane elbows Ilya, who squawks indignantly. “Who else is part of this elite club?”

“Well obviously me.” Ilya kisses his shoulder. “You.” Then kisses his ear. “And maybe Gabrielle, though I do not think she is closeted.” Ilya kisses the nob of Shane’s spine, at the junction between his neck and his back.

Shane’s mood sours immediately. “You just want a pretext to flirt with her,” he snarks. “Maybe to get her to suck your cock.”

Ilya stills. “You are jealous.”

Shane refuses to answer.

Ilya squeezes Shane closer against his body. “Why would I want her to suck my cock, when most beautiful person in this prison is already doing it,” Ilya murmurs into Shane’s ear.

Shane’s mind goes blank. He could not have heard correctly. “What?”

“You heard me, Hollander.”

Shane’s stomach flutters. He untangles his legs from Ilya’s and turns so they are face to face. And then they are kissing and panting into each other’s mouths, and then Shane sucks a gigantic hickey right onto Ilya’s collarbone, and then he forgets all about Gabrielle.

Chapter End Notes

If the smut sucks don't tell me!!!!
Also if you're wondering about the taint thing, Ilya was stimulating Shane's prostate from the outside. ;)

I'm not sorry about the Foucault bit, I HAD TO OKAY I was obsessed with that book when I first started grad school. (In the end I mostly acknowledged it in my dissertation cause it's a staple of prison studies, but it didn't resonate *that* much with the day to day experience of prison as reported by my interviewees. Which is why you also get Ilya scoffing over the optimization thing.)

Chapter 5: Kin

Chapter Summary

Ilya and Shane navigate kinship while in prison.

Chapter Notes

Établissement de détention de Montréal / prison de Bordeaux, Friday January 18, 2010

“We need to talk about something.”

Ilya stops carding through Shane’s hair. They’ve fallen into an easy routine this week: during the day, they go to Accueil and eat with Gabrielle or Jay or both. After, they train as much as possible, at the gym or running around the yard or just in their cell, depending on what’s available. They shower, and as soon as their cell is locked and the lights go out they ravenously explore each other’s bodies. They make out until the guard has made his way down the entire walkway and left, then immediately tear each other’s clothes off. They tussle and whoever comes out on top gets to blow the other one first. Ilya loves everything about it, minus their horrible bed of course. (He’s already lost track of how many times he’s bumped his head against the top bunk as he tries to get Shane naked.) And then they cuddle until they hear the screws coming again, and Ilya climbs back into his own bed. Then, more often than not, they go again. Sometimes, like tonight, they just cuddle for the entire second hour.

“What is it?” Ilya asks, careful to maintain a neutral tone although his gut clenches with anxiety. Does Shane want to stop whatever it is they’ve been doing? Does he want to go back to being buddies who only spend time together for safety purposes? Obviously Ilya would never pressure Shane into doing anything more than he’s willing to do, but that doesn’t mean a downgrade to friendship wouldn’t hurt. Not that they’re in a relationship or anything – Ilya’s heart does something funny in his chest as the thought pops into his brain. But they’ve certainly been something more than friends these past five days. Friends with benefits? Lovers? Ilya doesn’t know and he’s certainly not about to ask, especially not if Shane wants to break things off. Not that there’s anything to break. Except his hear– nope, not going there. Get a fucking grip, Ilya.

“Um, so. Since the calling card we got doesn’t work for international calls, and you can’t call your family, can I pass your parents’ contact info on to my mom?”

Oh. Ilya’s anxiety over losing this whatever-they-have recedes, only to be replaced by a wave of nausea as he thinks about his dad finding out he’s in prison. He knows exactly what Grigori would say if they had any way to speak to each other directly. First, he’d be pissed about Ilya not getting in touch sooner, talk over Ilya’s explanation of how impossible it would have been given the constraints, and scold Ilya for not magically finding a way despite the odds. Then he’d yell at Ilya for getting in a fight with a teammate, and for getting caught, and for disgracing the family name by becoming a felon. Which would be laughable, coming from a corrupt police officer who has definitely done worse than punch a creep, and who taught his other son to follow in his footsteps. Then Grigori would go on some rant about Ilya’s lack of discipline and it all being his mother’s fault for teaching him to be lazy like her. If Grigori ever found out the reason for punching Makarov – protecting Shane Hollander, whom Ilya has a huge gay crush on –, he would disown his youngest son.

“Ilya?” Shane lifts his head from its resting place on Ilya’s chest, though they can’t see each other in the dark.

“Ah. I would not want to bother her.”

Shane rubs his hand along Ilya’s sternum. “She already said she’d be happy to help; she even told me again over the phone today. She said if the situation was reversed, she’d be worried sick and she’d want to know.”

Ilya seriously doubts Grigori would help if it were Shane, and he isn’t so sure his father is worried. Grigori is probably more so angry that his favorite punching bag hasn’t come home yet. Lovely Shane has grown up in an apparently loving family, though, so he probably wouldn’t understand. Part of Ilya wants Grigori to know, though, and wants to expect that his father will step up and be there for him. Yet the chances are slim and it will likely hurt to get his hopes up, only to see them dashed by his predictably disappointing father.

Ilya’s father does deserve to know why his son hasn’t come home, though. He sighs. “Okey, I will give you father’s email and phone number. But you should tell your mother that I am sorry: he will be rude.”

“Why would he be rude? Does he think you and I should hate each other? Would he take it out on my mom?”

Ilya laughs humorlessly. “Ah, no. He is just not…” Ilya steadies himself before continuing. “He is very strict,” he finishes weakly. ‘Very strict’ does not even begin to cover Grigori’s personality.

Ilya can practically hear the wheels turning in Shane’s brain. “Is that… are you saying he’s not very nice?”

“Yes. He is not nice.”

“Not nice like… Like he’s mean to people in general? Or like he’s mean to you specifically?”

Ilya’s throat tightens and tears well up in his eyes. “Both,” he finally chokes out, trying not to sound like he’s crying. Which he isn’t. It doesn’t count if he blinks really fast and the tears stay inside.

Shane shifts, blanketing Ilya’s body with his own and shoving his forearms under and around Ilya’s neck. Shane squeezes, murmuring “I’m sorry” directly into Ilya’s ear, before tucking his face more firmly against Ilya’s.

Something loosens inside Ilya’s chest over Shane seeing through the façade, through the euphemisms, through the bravado. Seeing him somewhere in there, Ilya whose heart is fragile like the wings of a freshly metamorphosized butterfly. Ilya wordlessly encircles Shane with his arms, clinging tightly.

“What about your mom? Maybe my mom can speak to her?” Shane asks gently, a few minutes later.

Well. Apparently they’re not done covering the extent of Ilya’s shitty family situation. Fuck. Maybe Shane will decide Ilya is too broken, too much trouble, and cut his losses before getting in too deep. But Shane has also shown how kind he is, here in the dark where they can be something more than rivals-turned-friends. Maybe Ilya can trust him with another piece of his soul.

“She, um. She is dead,” Ilya confesses, only just barely strangling the sob that tries to make its way out of his throat.

“Oh, Ilya. I’m so sorry.” Shane tightens his hold and plants a kiss on Ilya’s cheek.

Tucked in this cocoon together, Ilya is grateful for Shane’s touch and steady presence. Like he has found an anchor in this man he’s only actually known for a few days, after being unmoored since losing his mother. Despite the emotional vulnerability prompted by this conversation, Ilya feels safer and more cared for than he’s felt in a long time.

They stay silent for a few minutes, until Ilya speaks up. “Did you choose this moment on purpose? Ask about helping after you have sucked brain out through dick?”

Shane squirms a little bit. “Maybe,” he answers.

Apparently Shane has noticed how uncomfortable Ilya is with asking for or receiving help. And instead of making Ilya feel weird about it, he just… adjusted. Ilya feels warm down to his core, and he gives Shane another squeeze. They stay like that, chest to chest and limbs tangled together, until it’s time to separate and go to sleep.

Saturday January 19, 2010

“Hi honey,” Yuna greets him through the telephone in the visitors’ area, cradling the receiver between hers and David’s ears.

“Hi mom, hi dad.” Scanning them through the plexiglass, Shane notices the worry lines shining through the brave smiles they’ve put on. “How’re you?”

“Good, good, we’re just…” Yuna stops and wordlessly communicates with David.

“Today has been a lot,” David offers diplomatically.

Shane’s stomach clenches. Surely they wouldn’t… “Uh, did they… did they strip search you when you came in?” He grimaces. He really doesn’t want to think about his naked parents, especially not in such a humiliating context.

“Oh no, no. We put our belongings in a locker and just had to walk through a scanner thing, like at the airport,” his mom assures him. “It’s just that they’re not great at telling us what’s happening or why to do things. It’s like they don’t even think we’re people.”

Well if that isn’t the crux of the issue. Staff clearly don’t think inmates are people, why would their families deserve any better? On the phone, his mother talked Shane’s ear off over her disappointment that they wouldn’t let her in last weekend, when she dropped off his belongings. The first day, they said visitation hours were over and to come back the following day. She complied, only for the guards to inform her that visitation was cancelled for Saturday. Yuna spent another night at the hotel, returning with David who'd finished packing Shane’s belongings over in Kingston. Visitation was still cancelled when they showed up on Sunday, so they returned to Ottawa where they spent the week at their respective jobs. Shane had to explain to his parents that the prison was short-staffed on both days, which is also why he and Ilya spent so much time locked in their cell. What Shane didn’t do is share Jay’s claim that the short-staffed thing is a bullshit excuse, and that guards are just afraid of being on their own around inmates unless they move around in packs.

David gently interrupts Yuna’s imminent rant with a hand to her shoulder. “Why are you asking, Shane? Did they strip search you?”

Shane’s cheeks flush with embarrassment and he squirms in his uncomfortably hard seat. “Um, yeah. They do it when we have to go to certain parts of the prison. They also did it at the police station, before getting to court, before leaving, and after getting here. It’s, uh, it’s a matter of routine.”

Yuna frowns. “Well that doesn’t sound right. They can’t just get people naked whenever they want, you’re barely of age. Let me look into this.”

“Mom, no, please don’t. If they think you’re difficult, they treat you worse. And I’m pretty sure that includes a family member creating difficulties.” Shane stops talking. He really needs his mom to understand that things in here do not work the same as they do out in the world, and that if she handles his incarceration like she handles contract negotiations, it could be detrimental to his overall safety and sanity. Jay has been really clear about that, though he seems to enjoy pushing the envelope a little bit in the way he handles interactions with guards. Shane is decidedly not interested in following in Jay’s footsteps.

Yuna deflates. “Okay, honey, I’m sorry. I just want to help.” She smiles wistfully and presses her palm flat against the plexiglass. Her thumb twitches, like she’s trying to hold Shane’s cheek.

Shane’s throat constricts incrementally. “Um, well, there is something you can do to help if you want to. Just, Ilya, not me.” Shane sees his parents’ brows rise and he rolls his eyes, then plows on. “Yes, I call him Ilya now. Um, so thank you for bringing my stuff last week, I finally got it on Tuesday. And thank you for depositing the funds in my account, I was able to order from commissary. But the calling card I got doesn’t work internationally, so if you can contact Ilya's dad that would be helpful.”

Yuna immediately accepts, and Shane passes on Ilya’s warning about his rude father. Yuna’s features tighten in displeasure, but she abstains from commenting. Shane tells them he’ll phone with the details, as the piece of a memo containing Ilya’s chicken scrawl was confiscated during the strip search. As if an international phone number posed a threat to the institution’s safety, Shane thinks wryly. There are so many inane rules to abide by in prison, he thinks he’d go crazy if he tried to learn them all as most only make sense by a stretch of the imagination.

“Also, uh, could you look into immigration lawyers for him? His visa only covered the tournament and he’s worried he’ll get into even more trouble with the law, and that it could fuck with his career. And um, I haven’t run this by him, but his dad sounds like a total dick. So if he doesn’t help pay for the lawyer, you can use my money.”

“Are you sure, honey? That could get expensive,” Yuna reasons.

“Yeah, I didn’t spend my signing bonus, and I’ll just get Ilya to pay me back once we’re out of here and have our rookie contracts.” If we ever get out of here and our teams still want us. “Plus, he’s alone here and I feel bad for him.”

“I think what your mother is trying to say is that we just want to make sure he’s not trying to take advantage of you.”

Shane frowns. Ilya? Sweet Ilya who cried last night talking about his family? Who didn’t want to burden the Hollanders with his issues? Who always double-checks for Shane’s consent? Never. “He wouldn’t, he’s not like that. I know I called him an asshole when we first met a year ago, but he’s actually really nice, he was just struggling with the language. And he’s my celly, and he’s had my back since we’ve been here, we’ve even agreed to stick together and keep each other safe.” And also we suck each other off every chance we get, but of course Shane wouldn’t say that to his parents.

“Oh, of course. That makes sense.” Yuna seems pensive – she’s probably thinking back to her own childhood, moving to another country and learning not one but two new languages. She would definitely understand where Ilya is coming from.

“I’m glad you have a friend in here,” David offers. “Maybe we can meet him next time we visit?”

Shane beams. “Okay, I’ll ask him. He’ll have to send a memo and ask to add you to the visitation list.” Then Shane thinks back to the paperwork he filled out when he was first admitted. “Oh wait no actually he can’t, you can only have your partner, parents, children, siblings, or lawyer visit.”

“Oh, well that is unfortunate. Maybe just introduce us over the phone next time you call?” David suggests.

“Yeah, okay. That would be nice. Anyway you won’t believe what I learned at Accueil this week!”

Shane explains how when inmates have a job, a portion of their salaries is collected and put into a Fund that covers the fees and materials for all the social reinsertion programs and all of the other activities in prison.

“Ilya and I were so bored we did the math. Well he did it, since I suck at math. In here we’d only make 35% of minimum wage, and they keep 10% of that for the Fund, and then they split what’s left and put half in savings, half in our commissary accounts. Which means that for every hour of work, an inmate gets 1.42$ put into their commissary account. As of January 2010,” Shane recites.

Yuna seems both impressed by how savvy this is on a business level and appalled by how exploitative it is to pay people so little, while also expecting them to cover the expenses associated to their own social reinsertion. David, on the other hand, just watches Shane intently throughout the conversation. Shane isn’t sure what his dad is seeing on his face, but he doesn’t want to ask in case his father has somehow clocked his massive crush on Ilya.

Once visitation is over and Shane has returned to the wing (after getting strip searched, again, as if his parents would ever try to smuggle something into a prison), he immediately heads to the cell and collapses into Ilya’s arms. Ilya instinctively catches Shane and holds him tight.

“How was it?” Ilya asks softly. God, he’s just so nice.

Shane isn’t sure how to explain that it was wonderful to see his parents, but that it’s also horrible now that they’re gone. While they sat together, Shane could forget the plexiglass and the walls and just bask in his parents’ love. But as soon as he left, it’s like he got doused with cold water and pulled back into the reality of the situation by the guard barking orders and by the strip search. The reminder of what he’s missing while he’s in here has made him feel well and truly incarcerated, like he’s trying to survive on scraps of normalcy in an all-but-normal environment.

But Shane can’t say that to Ilya, who is not in touch with his family and will likely not be seeing them anytime soon. So he just shrugs. “I don’t know. A lot.”

Ilya just holds onto him until Shane remembers the cell door is open. They’re hugging in full view of anyone who walks by, or anyone who glances in their direction from the walkway across the wing. Shane reluctantly pulls away.

The following week

Now that they’ve completed orientation week, it’s back to mind-numbingly boring days. Ilya has started to lose his sense of time, one empty day bleeding into the next. He has no doubt he’d be losing his mind if it weren’t for Shane’s company: they usually manage to find something to chirp each other about, or a new means of competing, or a heated debate to get into. Or they just train as best they can under the circumstances.

Which is what they’re doing now, sprinting up and down the three flights of stairs to burn out Ilya’s nervous energy. Shane phoned his mom and let Ilya know that Grigori will be no help whatsoever, despite Yuna Hollander’s best efforts. Ilya would feel devastated if he hadn’t already set his expectations so low they might as well have been in hell’s second subbasement. What he feels now, mostly, is resignation. His father has left him to his own devices, and Ilya is stuck here without a support system.

Well, that’s not true. He has Shane, and Gabrielle, and apparently Yuna Hollander too, who sounds like she’s gearing up to adopt Ilya, judging by Shane’s reenactment of their phone call.

Anyway, so they are running. Shane shoved him out of the way and now Ilya has an excellent view of the other man’s ass, which he doesn’t mind at all. He just wishes he could take his compression shirt off, but Shane has threatened him with no blowjobs for a week if he pulls that again.

Last week, Ilya removed his shirt at the gym, and Gabrielle’s eyes immediately homed in on the impressive hickey Shane left on his collarbone. She knowingly glanced at Shane, who managed to simultaneously look pleased with his handywork and apprehensive over other people noticing. Ilya dutifully put his shirt back on, and he’s been more careful since they’ve discovered that Shane also likes to claw at his back.

Good thing the one person who noticed was Gabrielle, as she goes to the gym to get out of the sector and socialize rather than actually train. She was probably the only person there who wasn’t minding her own business.

Ilya likes her, and he’s glad they’ve gotten closer over the course of the past week or so. She’s shared that she got stopped by the police for no other reason than because she was driving while Black. Ilya resisted the notion, arguing that it makes no sense for the police to do that. Shane snapped that as a white man, Ilya doesn’t know shit about racism, and to shut the fuck up and listen. He wanted to say that he’d picked up some things from being friends with Svetlana, but in all truth they’ve never really talked about racism. Ilya apologized and complied, and the story got even worse from there.

The police officer then demanded that Gabrielle hand over her ID and registration so that he could check whether the vehicle was hers. Gabrielle felt like she had no choice other than to comply. Due to her legal name and the ‘M’ gender marker appearing on her driver’s license, the police officer decided that she was either using a fake ID or committing identity theft. She tried to explain that she was trans, but the police officer decided that she was resisting arrest and started to manhandle her. That is when she started actually resisting arrest, and she wound up spitting in the cop’s eye. He did arrest her, and like Ilya and Shane she wound up in pre-trial detention.

Ilya reaches the top level and catches his breath next to Shane, when he spots Gabrielle slinking around and looking glum. He jogs over. “Hey, what is wrong?”

Gabrielle is barely holding back tears. “I called my lawyer. Apparently when someone spits on a cop, it is protocol to test for HIV/AIDS. And I am positive.” Her chin wobbles. “I think they will charge me with aggravated assault too.”

Shane looks appalled. “They would do that? But it’s not like it was on purpose!”

“I know. I do not know if they care about intent, or the fact that my viral load is really low thanks to the meds. I have just heard there have been cases like that. And when a crime is against a cop, they take it even more seriously,” Gabrielle sniffles miserably.

“I am so sorry, Gabrielle. Is there anything we can do?” Ilya asks.

“No. But I would not say no to a hug,” she hiccups.

He and Shane hold Gabrielle in a hug sandwich for a long time, occasionally pulling back a little bit to cast worried glances at each other over her shoulder. They catch a few people staring, and Ilya snarls at them to fuck off.

Early February

“Why do you want us to do your hair?” Ilya blinks.

“Because you are my road dogs,” Gabrielle reasons.

Ilya and Shane stare blankly.

“My car. Mes amis de collège.”

More blank stares. Gabrielle sighs. “Like my people, my prison fam. As in family,” she adds, catching Ilya’s still-blank stare.

“Ah, yes, prison family, and Shane is our daddy.” Ilya grins mischievously, and Shane knows what he’s about to say, the fucker. “Our sugar daddy.”

Shane whacks Ilya. “I told you to stop calling me that.”

“What? Is true! You buy all my things at commissary.”

“Yeah well, be a good sugar baby and watch what you say, I might get over it,” Shane grumbles.

“Yes, Daddy,” Ilya continues unapologetically. Shane growls and lunges at him, feeling both turned on and compelled to wipe the smirk off Ilya’s face. They wrestle a little bit, until Gabrielle clears her throat.

“Right, your hair.” Shane is embarrassed, while Ilya just looks smug as all hell. Asshole, Shane thinks fondly.

“Yes, we do not have the right products in here and it is winter, so I need to put my hair in a protective style so it does not get too dry and fall off. The problem is that it is a bitch to do my entire head by myself. So I will show you two how to put my hair into box braids using yarn. Since we cannot get synthetic hair in here,” Gabrielle adds, clearly exasperated with the powers that be.

Gabrielle does exactly that, laying out her supplies and perching at the end of a table in the wing’s common area. Shane carefully parts Gabrielle’s hair into sections, impressing Ilya with the precise boxes he has created. They chat as Ilya and Shane braid away.

“Where did you get yarn?” Ilya asks idly.

“Oh. Well, you know how I got back into sex work since getting here? I get my johns to order me things I need from commissary, ahead of time. Then they pay upfront and we have sex.”

“Is there way to get condoms in here?” Ilya wonders aloud. Shane stills, listening intently.

“Oh, yes, I get my johns to find an excuse to go to the infirmary and get their own condoms. It is just tricky because there are limited supplies, so I may need to tell them it is no glove, no love. Or that if they still want, it will cost them extra. And they should also know my viral load is probably too low from transmission, but I am still positive.”

Shane wonders how to phrase his question delicately. “And… are you okay with it? Going back to sex work after stopping?”

Gabrielle shrugs, looking resigned. “Do you not know that horny disgusting men are our number one employers? For trans women of color, I mean. There is so much discrimination in workplaces, to get housing, for every little thing. So, we find other ways to make ends meet. Some girls like it, they like the attention and to be made to feel like they are beautiful, when most straight men would never consider dating us or introducing us to their families. I am more neutral about it, it just… is what it is. Work. That involves sex.” She chews the inside of her cheek. “At least in here, nobody is trying to get me to top.”

“You are strict bottom?” Ilya grins, throwing a meaningful glance Shane’s way. Shane scowls, and Ilya’s smile broadens.

“It is more fluid outside of work. But hormones make it hard to, well, get hard and perform, which ruins the fantasy for clients. So I prefer not to have this on my menu.”

“So what you are saying is straight men are stupid,” Ilya puts bluntly.

Gabrielle titters. “Yes, well, we all knew this already. In here they are also stupid, most would not hire a trans girl if they were anywhere else. They are so worried about it being gay to fuck me, some of them do not even want me to take my underwear or skirt off in case they see girldick. Stupid,” she concludes.

“And, um. How do you get lube in here?” Shane is mortified for even thinking of asking, but he does notice Ilya’s eyes widen with interest.

“It is sometimes available at commissary, or there are alternatives I can tell you about if ever you need,” Gabrielle offers, her eyes twinkling. “Otherwise, there are other penetrative options that do not involve anal sex.”

Both Ilya and Shane perk up at this, and Gabrielle laughs. “Has either of you heard of muffing?”

Chapter End Notes

*Real talk, the thing about how much people are paid in Québec prisons is really real, I even wrote a scientific article about it. Being mad about the exploitative nature of it all is also how I wound up doing a dissertation on the prison environment!

*Look, I know we all want Ilya to be a perfect friend/partner to the BIPOC around him, but that's just not how things work. White supremacy has brainwashed us white people, and unless we're actively putting in the work to confront and unlearn it, saying and doing accidentally racist or biased things is kind of the default mode. And it will keep happening even once we commit to fighting back against racism, sometimes we're well-intentioned but we still pull shit like white tears or side with white supremacy without even noticing. So it's on all of us to keep trying and working on it and to learn what's a micro-aggression, for example. /endrant

Chapter 6: The Hole

Chapter Summary

People wind up in solitary confinement, otherwise known as the hole. Plans for Shane’s own hole are made and executed.

Chapter Notes

CW for misgendering, references to suicide, along with anti-Black and transmisogynistic slurs.
Regarding the other thing that will come up at the end of the chapter, DON'T DO THIS AT HOME.

Établissement de détention de Montréal / prison de Bordeaux, the same day

“How do you even know so much about sex?” Shane asks wonderingly.

“Did you miss the part where sex is my job?” Gabrielle snipes fondly. She is sitting on a table in the common area, braiding the front section of her hair as she does not ‘trust you newbies to do it nice enough’. Ilya thinks this is fair. He and Shane have busied themselves with one side each, standing or kneeling on the bench or sitting down, depending on which part of a given braid they are working on.

“Is still probably more knowledge than most sex workers, no?” Ilya wonders aloud. Gabrielle spent the past few hours walking them through in-depth explanations of sexual acts involving two people with dicks. Although Ilya knew about most of these through porn, what most surprised him was the rundown on muffing, which involves penetrating the something-something canals, or the ‘hole your balls came from when they dropped’ as Gabrielle put it. According to Gabrielle, you can either put the tip of a finger in there or push a testicle in and out. She explained this stimulates a different nerve than the ones connected to the penis or the prostate, so muffing in conjunction with other sexual practices can lead to more powerful orgasms for some people. Gabrielle also delved into the world of safe, sane, and consensual kink; Shane interrupted after the overview of cock and ball torture.

“Yes, well, I was a pro-Domme for a while, and now I work at an organization that is by and for sex workers. It is called Stella. I develop resources and teach workshops on all things sex. At least, it was my job before coming back in here,” Gabrielle adds wistfully.

“I have no doubt you are excellent at this job,” Ilya says.

“Yes I am, as I am very good at everything I do,” Gabrielle asserts pertly.

“Wow, Ilya, she’s gunning for your title as the wing’s most arrogant person,” Shane deadpans.

“Is not arrogance if it is true,” Ilya retorts, completely unbothered. Yes, he is also good at everything he sets out to do, and he has no problem saying so.

Gabrielle laughs. “You, my friend, are completely right.”

Once they are done braiding Gabrielle’s hair, a message comes through the wing’s loudspeaker. “Jean au contrôle. Jean au contrôle.” Gabrielle sighs.

“What?” Ilya asks.

“They are calling for me,” Gabrielle translates. “I do not know what they could want. Will you come with me?”

“Of course,” Shane nods, pocketing some of Gabrielle’s supplies so they don’t get stolen; Ilya gathers the rest before they start walking. Thankfully they are close to Gabrielle’s cell, so they drop everything off along the way.

The wing’s door is currently unlocked, allowing workers to return from their shifts. The three of them to walk out to the guards’ security room. There is no wall on one side, making it possible for inmates to step up to a counter behind which a handful of screws lounge on desk chairs, occasionally glancing at monitors displaying various security feeds.

“You called for me?” Gabrielle asks.

Bouchard, a guard who seems to be in his mid twenties, rises and steps up to the counter. He is fit, with thick arms and solid thighs trapped in a tight military-style uniform. In another life, Ilya would find this man hot. But as it so happens, Bouchard is a screw, and not even one of the decent ones who are capable of compassion and of letting things slide. No, Bouchard is a try-hard and very much a dick about applying the rules as he sees fit.

“Vos cheveux, monsieur Jean. Vous avez pas le droit,” Bouchard says sternly.

“He says her hair isn’t allowed,” Shane murmurs to Ilya, frowning. “Also he called her sir.”

Ilya is insulted on Gabrielle’s behalf. She is so clearly a woman! Anyone with eyes could see.

“Comment ça, j’ai pas le droit ? C’est quoi le problème avec mes cheveux ?” Gabrielle asks. Ilya catches the frustration in her tone, and Shane explains she’s asking what the problem is with her hair.

“C’t’un usage inapproprié du matériel de cantine. Vos cheveux sont trop longs, vous pourriez vous pendre avec. On juge que c’est un risque suicidaire,” Bouchard explains calmly. Both Shane and Gabrielle look baffled at that, and Ilya elbows Shane.

“Apparently she misused commissary items. Her hair is too long, she could hang herself with it, so they’re saying it’s a suicide risk,” Shane finally whispers.

Ilya stiffens at that, and memories of his mother surface unbidden. Mama’s body, laid across the bed as she takes her final rest. Mama’s outstretched arm, listlessly falling off the edge. Mama’s glassy eyes and parted lips, which would never see Ilya nor speak to him again.

Ilya forces himself back into the present, blinking rapidly as his heart clenches. Is Gabrielle suicidal too? Will he lose her? He doesn’t think he could go through all of that again.

“Vous auriez pas pu me le dire avant qu’on passe des heures à faire mes cheveux ?” Gabrielle asks, affronted. Shane says she’s wondering why they didn’t tell her anything sooner.

Bouchard shrugs, the hint of a smug expression on his face.

“Ah mon dieu, vous avez fait par exprès!” Gabrielle is incensed. Bouchard’s face splits into a nasty grin. “C’est quoi votre maudit problème ?! C’est parce que je suis Noire, parce que je suis trans, ou parce que je voulais pas vous faire une pipe l’autre jour ?”

“She says he did it on purpose, and asks if his problem is that she’s Black, trans, or refused to blow him,” comes Shane’s interpretation.

Bouchard’s mood darkens and he steps around the counter, attempting to loom over Gabrielle. The effect is ruined by the fact that she’s nearly as tall. “Ta gueule, Jean !” he grits out tersely.

Both Ilya and Shane stiffen. Ilya may not understand French, but he does understand body language; this does not bode well at all.

“Quoi, t’as honte de vouloir une négresse tranny ? T’as peur que tes collègues le sachent ? Ben, trop tard, j’pense qu’y’ont entendu.” Gabrielle laughs meanly, crossing her arms. Shane mutters that she’s confronting him about wanting her, referring to herself with slurs, and that if he’s worried about his colleagues knowing, well it’s already too late. Ilya simultaneously admires her for her bravery and wishes she had a shred of an instinct for self-preservation.

Bouchard grabs Gabrielle’s bicep and she shrieks. “Ayoye ! Tu m’fais mal !” She tries to pull her arm away but Bouchard tightens his hold, until Gabrielle winces and stops struggling.

“Oké Jean, ça suffit. Tu t’en vas au trou jusqu’à c’que tu t’calmes,” Bouchard states tersely. He starts dragging her away.

“Esti d’tabarnak, j’suis capable de marcher toute seule ! Lâche-moi, câlisse !” Gabrielle yells.

“What the fuck is happening?” Ilya demands, clasping Shane’s wrist.

“He’s taking her to solitary. Said she needed to calm down. Also, he hurt her, and she’s swearing and arguing that she can walk on her own,” Shane explains, eyes wide. Fuck.

“Circulez, les gars,” another screw drawls, completely unperturbed. Ilya knows this one: it means ‘circulate’, and the guards say it when they want you to fuck off.

Shane and Ilya get back inside the wing, beelining for Jay’s cell in an unspoken agreement. They find him sitting at his desk with a thick notebook, scribbling intently.

Shane knocks on the doorframe. “Hey, Jay?”

Jay startles and slams the notebook shut. “Uh, hey Shane, hey Ilya. What’s up?” Jay tries for a casual air, but he is clearly flustered.

What the hell? Ilya catches Shane’s eye. “Ah, we came to tell you news. Gabrielle was sent to hole, for her hair. They said was suicide risk,” Ilya explains.

Jay frowns. “Oh, shit. That sounds fucking stupid.”

“Yeah,” Shane nods.

“Sometimes I think they make up rules just to fuck with us,” Ilya says.

Jay relaxes; dissing the screws is one of his favorite pastimes. “Yeah, did you hear about that guy ? His girlfriend is an inmate at Tanguay and they refused to give him the drawing she’d made. It was not even inappropriate.”

The next day

“No, you can’t just get chips, we need to have more nourishing options!” Shane argues. He’s brandishing the sheet they just collected, a checklist they can fill out to order items from commissary. “We’re trying to make up for those tiny ass portions so we can stay in shape!”

“Yes, I like your ass in shape, but is not like we have good nourishing options,” Ilya gestures dramatically.

“Ugh, fine,” Shane complies. He would never admit it, but he finds it hard to refuse Ilya’s requests. He’d be more concerned about it if Ilya weren’t also quick to give in to Shane.

“Maybe I get supplies for lighter or tattoos, too,” Ilya suggests, eyes twinkling as he pulls their cell’s door open.

Shane stops in his tracks. It looks like a burglar ransacked their cell, only to be followed by a category 5 hurricane. Their possessions are strewn across the floor, with both mattresses tossed haphazardly over them. The bedding has been torn off as well and is bunched up carelessly, like a gutted cherry lying on top of a mostly collapsed tiered cake.

Ilya picks up a toothbrush on the floor and tosses it in their tiny trashcan, looking disgusted. “Add toothbrush to list. And I am borrowing yours until we get order.” Ilya nods at the other toothbrush lying in the sink.

Shane shakes himself out of his stupor and scowls. “God, I fucking hate when they search our cells. Now everything’s dirty.” Shane profoundly dislikes disorder; it puts him completely out of sorts. And the notion that all of his clothing and other belongings have been on the floor makes his skin crawl.

“I know, kotenok. I am sorry they did this again,” Ilya offers. He toes off his shoes and steps onto the mattress, making his way to the window side of the cell. “Help me lift this please.”

They start putting their cell back in order. A few minutes later, their neighbor Steve stops by. “Ah tabarnak, not you guys too? Glad they did not find anything!” Steve is a burly trucker from Saguenay-Lac-St-Jean. He does his best to speak English so Ilya is included in conversations, and  Shane appreciates him for it.

“What do you mean?” Ilya asks, seeming confused. It’s true that half the time, he doesn’t get what Steve is saying even if it is in English, the Saguenay accent being quite thick.

“They got your friend Jay! He is au trou right now,” Steve explains.

Jay is in the hole. Fuck. “Oh damn, do you know why?” Shane asks.

Steve just shrugs. “When they send someone au trou after this,” he gestures at their upturned cell, “it is usually because of contrebande.” Shit. Jay must have gotten caught with something he wasn’t supposed to have. “Entéka, I will let you get back to it!” Steve knocks on the doorframe twice and leaves.

“Merci pour l’info, Steve!” Shane calls out. Thanks for the info, Steve.

“De rien!” Steve yells back, already inside his cell. You’re welcome!

Shane returns his attention to Ilya, who looks pensive. Shane realizes he hasn’t seen the other man move at all since Steve dropped the news about Jay. “What are you thinking?”

“I am thinking I want to know what is in notebook,” Ilya answers slowly.

“Maybe prison plans. Maybe he’s trying to plan his escape,” Shane answers lightly, reaching for a bunched-up T-shirt and folding it.

Ilya doesn’t answer, still lost in his thoughts.

“Anyway now we’re definitely not getting you supplies for tattoos or a lighter,” Shane sighs. “There’s no fucking way you’re going to the hole too.”

Ilya perks up at that. “Why? You would miss me?”

Yeah. Yeah I really would. “Fuck off, no, I’d just be bored to tears if you and Jay and Gabrielle were all stuck in there.” He would certainly be bored, but that’s not the whole truth; Shane would also be worried as hell about Ilya trapped in there alone, with no one to talk to and nothing to do except stare at the walls and talk to himself.

“So you are saying you cannot have fun without me.” Ilya’s eyes glint.

Shane huffs and changes tacks. “I thought you were worried about me going places on my own. I can’t do the buddy system if my buddy is in the hole.”

“If you say so, buddy.” Ilya grins broadly, peeking back at Shane over his shoulder while reorganizing items on the shelf over the desk.

Shane rolls his eyes, aggressively folding a pair of sweatpants.

“Is okey, Hollander. Hole sounds even more boring than you. I will be careful,” Ilya assures him.

They work in silence for a while, until Ilya speaks up again. “Is bad that I am not mad they destroyed cell? I know you are a little upset about it, but at least we have something to do now,” he asks quietly. “Cannot listen to another one of Bernard’s fucking stories about hunting, I might accidentally punch him in mouth.”

Shane sighs, tilting his head back and staring at the ceiling. He sees Ilya’s point. “No, Ilya, it’s not bad. I bet Bernard’s making everything up, and that he sucks at hunting just as much as his jokes suck.”

Ilya giggles, and it might just be Shane’s favorite sound.

Example of a commissary list - would be in French at Bordeaux prison

“Your dildo. Is big?” Ilya asks nonchalantly. He feels nowhere near nonchalant, in fact he is extremely chalant. It’s been eating at a corner of his brain for weeks.

Shane, who has been sitting at the desk filling out the commissary sheet while wearing the world’s hottest, nerdiest glasses, turns to face Ilya. Ilya wants Shane to get naked and to come fuck his mouth. In fact Ilya is perfectly positioned for this: he’s lying on the ground, legs up and feet resting on the bed. But unfortunately, this fantasy will not happen and because life is unfair Ilya doesn’t even get to see Shane sprawled out, wearing nothing but his glasses, as they’ve only ever had sex in the dark. Ilya hasn’t even been able to pepper targeted kisses all over Shane’s freckles. Rude.

“What?” Shane asks blankly.

“Your dildo. You said your father had to find and pack it. I want to know if it is big,” Ilya explains sagely.

Color rises to Shane’s cheeks, and lord is it doing something to Ilya.

“Why do you want to know?” Shane bites out.

Ilya shrugs. “I want to know if you can take my cock.”

Shane splutters. “What the fuck, Ilya! If you’re going to say shit like that, don’t say it so loud!”

Ilya stares at Shane expectantly. “Well?”

“It’s smaller,” Shane mutters, making a show of looking at the commissary sheet.

“But you could still take my cock. I am sure of this.” He may be pushing his luck, but Ilya can’t seem to stop.

Shane’s cheeks turn fire-engine red, but he nods. “I can take you,” he confirms, checking some box on the commissary list. “Why, our friends are in the hole, so now you want mine?” Shane looks back at Ilya, the corner of his lips twitching.

Ilya grins wolfishly. He loves when Hollander gives as well as he takes. Fuck, he’s so hot. “Yes. I want to fuck you. If you want.” If Ilya’s heartrate has increased, it’s nobody’s business but his own.

Shane cocks his head and pouts. “But I can’t douche properly in here. And the food messes with my digestion.”

“Just do your best, and I will not mind. Will be too dark to see anyway. I will just wash well after, will not even know if I have shit dick!” Ilya says quickly.

“Wow, how romantic of you,” Shane says drily. Ilya’s heart flips at that. Is that what they are doing? Romance? Fuck. That sounds nice. “What are we doing about supplies?”

“What do you mean? You buy lube, I get condoms from infirmary.”

Shane looks at him like he’s stupid. “Ilya. We can’t do that. The guy who delivers our orders is a total gossip; he’ll tell everyone that one or both of us is having gay sex. And people know we’re always hanging out, they’ll know it’s with each other. Then once we’re out of here and in the League and the media starts talking about us even more, they’ll figure out who we are and someone’s going to spill the beans.”

Shit. Shane is right. If it gets out, their careers will be fucked, Ilya won’t be able to stay in the US on a work visa, and he’ll be shipped right back home to Russia to face disgrace, his father’s disappointment, and who knows what else. “Okey, so you buy coconut oil. Gabrielle said was okey option, but bad with condoms. I was tested before trip here and did not fuck anybody during tournament. What about you?” Ilya glances at Shane, hoping he comes across as reasonable rather than desperate. Ilya thinks even if Shane hadn’t been tested recently, he’d take on the risk. Gabrielle might yell at him for not practicing safer sex, but he just wants Shane so bad…

“I’m good too. Um, but if we do that… can we agree that we’re only fucking each other while we’re in here?” Shane suggests, blushing again.

Ilya immediately agrees. Who else would he be fucking anyway? He wasn’t lying when he said Hollander was the prettiest person here. He’s also the kindest, funniest, brattiest, bitchiest, and bossiest, and Ilya is so infatuated he couldn’t even contemplate fucking anybody else.

A broad grin splits Shane’s features, and Ilya feels momentarily blinded. “Okay, I’m adding coconut oil to the order. If anybody asks, it’s for my skincare or something.”

Ilya nods enthusiastically. God, he can’t wait to fuck Shane; he may or may not have imagined doing so ever since draft day. He’s especially fantasized about baptizing one of those gym benches with cum.

Ugh, he really needs to stop thinking about that so he doesn’t get hard right now.

“Is our anniversary: one month in hellhole. So we celebrate with heaven hole,” Ilya reasons.

Shane sighs. “You think you’re so funny.”

“I am funny!” Ilya retorts indignantly.

“If you say so.” Shane peaks out from the cell door’s window. They received their order earlier today, and Shane showered and did his best to douche using an empty Gatorade bottle. It’s almost lights out, they’ve both already removed all their clothes except their boxers, and Ilya is impatiently waiting for him on the bottom bunk. Shane tries to steady himself as he practically vibrates with anticipation: he’s wanted Ilya to fuck him ever since the draft, it is in fact the reason why he purchased a dildo in the first place. He’s been thinking about it more and more over the past month, as he and Ilya discover just how good they can make each other feel. Anyway. “Hey, have you ever done anal? As a top or a bottom,” he pivots.

“Ah, no, never. It has not come up during one-night stands. But I have researched technique,” Ilya answers almost sheepishly.

“Well I’ve done it with my dildo so I need you to pay attention and listen to me, okay? I do trust you with my body, but please remember it’s not like fucking a vagina. So like, use a lot of oil and then more oil, and go slow so I have time to adjust.” Shane feels like an idiot for blushing over that. They’ve been giving each other orgasms once or twice a day for weeks now, you’d think he could talk about sex with this man without getting embarrassed.

Ilya nods eagerly, lips slightly parted and pupils blown wide with desire. He pulls out the tub of coconut oil they’ve conveniently left under the bed.

Once the lights are out, they drag Shane’s mattress to the floor and tumble onto it, passionately catching each other’s lips. They clumsily tug their boxers off and Ilya hisses when he pulls too hard and his fist accidentally connects with the wall. Shane reaches for Ilya’s wrist and sensually drags his tongue along the side of the Russian’s hand.

“Fuck, Shane,” Ilya groans, looming over Shane’s supine body.

Although Ilya’s hands have gotten nowhere near Shane’s dick, Shane is already so fucking turned on he’s worried he won’t even make it through prep without blowing his load. “Need you, Ilya,” he whines.

“You have me,” Ilya whispers breathlessly against Shane’s lips, before capturing Shane’s tongue and sucking. Ilya swallows both of their moans, first palming at Shane’s pec then at his bulge.

“Anghhh,” Shane cries out, attempting to keep his voice down as he arches into Ilya’s touch. Ilya wraps his long fingers around Shane’s cock and squeezes, and Shane can feel his pulse thumping irregularly against Ilya’s fist.

Ilya lets go and starts worshiping his way down Shane’s body, nibbling and pressing kisses into every inch of skin he can find. Then he settles between Shane’s outspread legs and pushes them up as far as he can. Shane clutches the underside of his knees, feeling both exposed and safe under this man’s attentive touch.

Ilya licks down Shane’s frenulum then sucks on one of Shane’s balls, rolling it with his tongue before releasing it and indulgently repeating his efforts on the other side. Then he continues his journey south, laving at Shane’s taint and dipping his tongue into the crease below. Ilya wastes no time spreading Shane apart with his big hands. “Hold like this,” Ilya rasps, clearly affected, and Shane readily complies.

Shane inhales sharply when Ilya spits on his puckered rim and immediately dives in to greedily devour him. It feels decadent, like they’re getting away with something that shouldn’t be allowed. Shane relaxes against Ilya’s skilled mouth, and soon enough the tip of Ilya’s tongue slips past the ring of muscles. Shane stifles a sob and thrashes against the mattress; Ilya just pins his hips down with one forearm and starts stroking his cock with the other hand, still working his tongue into Shane.

Finally, Ilya pulls back with a smacking sound and reaches for the tub of makeshift lube, scooping out a generous glob and setting it in a small dish. Right. Shane distantly remembers making a fuss about it not being hygienic to double-dip into the container, but right now he couldn’t spare a single fuck. In some remote part of his brain, Shane thinks it’s nice that Ilya remembers.

Then Ilya’s well oiled index finger presses against Shane’s rim. “Ready?” he whispers.

“Yeah,” Shane chokes out. All of his nerve endings are alight.

Ilya’s finger slips inside, millimeter by millimeter, rubbing up against the belly-button side of Shane’s inner walls. Once he’s managed two knuckles, Ilya curls his digit in a come-hither motion, pressing up. Shane yelps, and Ilya freezes. “I hurt you?” He sounds worried.

“No it feels good, do it again,” Shane urges.

Ilya dutifully obeys, massaging Shane’s prostate until his body relents. “Another one?”

“Yeah,” Shane nods frantically. And then Ilya slowly adds a second finger, and it’s so good, and soon Shane asks for more, and then three of Ilya’s fingers are buried inside him as deep as they can go.

Ilya pumps his fingers in and out for what feels like ages, milking Shane’s prostate until Shane’s cock starts weeping. Shane’s brain gets fuzzy along the edges, but he is pulled out of his daze when the digital watch on his wrist beeps. Ilya pulls his fingers out and Shane grieves the loss, clenching around nothing.

Ilya helps Shane stand on unsteady legs and plops him onto the toilet seat before lifting the mattress off the ground and angling it back into its designated spot. Then he collects Shane and helps him get into bed, hand positioned just so to protect Shane’s head from the hard edges of the metal frame. Ilya draws the covers up over Shane, lingers for one chaste kiss, and clambers back into his own bunk.

Shane’s hole is still pulsating with need, and he quietly slips two fingers inside himself as they wait for the next round to be completed. He hears the sheets rustle above; it becomes clear that Ilya is languidly tugging at his own dick to remain ready. Hot.

Finally they are in the clear and they drag the mattress back onto the floor, agreeing it will give them a better range of motion and prevent excess creaking. Shane lies back down and pulls his legs up unprompted. “I kept myself ready for you,” he murmurs.

Ilya whines, and Shane’s cock twitches. “You will kill me,” he whispers before licking into Shane’s mouth. Shane worms his fingers through Ilya’s curls and tugs to keep their lips locked. Ilya runs one hand down Shane’s thigh and slips three fingers back inside, checking Shane’s readiness. “You still want?” Ilya asks, his breathing shallow.

Shane huffs. “Yes, Ilya, if you’re not inside me in the next minute I’ll kill you for real.”

Ilya scrambles back onto his knees and covers his hard length with oil before shoving his slick fingers inside Shane’s mouth. “Clean them and stay quiet,” he orders. He notches his cockhead against Shane’s rim, then waits.

Shane growls around Ilya’s fingers and wraps his legs around the other man’s waist, digging his heels in. They both groan as Ilya’s erection slips into Shane’s opening. Ilya stills once the first inch is inside. “You are good?” he grits out. He sounds out of breath already.

“Yeah. It’s just a lot. You?” Ilya is definitely girthier than Shane’s dildo. It’s not unpleasant, it’s just more than he’s used to.

“Yes. Is, ah, a lot for me too. Feels like your body is trying to swallow me in.”

“I do want to swallow you in,” Shane replies earnestly. “Keep going.”

They continue like this, Ilya pausing every inch and resisting the suction created by Shane’s hole, until Shane’s body makes space for him. Eventually, Ilya is completely sheathed inside Shane, and they both exhale shakily. Shane feels impossibly full, and he grabs Ilya’s chin so they can kiss again until his body adjusts. It’s wild and messy and perfect but Shane still needs more. “Move,” he commands, drawing his own hips back.

“Okey,” Ilya agrees, pulling backward and slowly pushing back in. They both wheeze as they rock into each other faster and faster, finding a rhythm that leaves them breathless.

“Need you harder,” Shane gasps, urgently digging his heels into Ilya’s lower back.

“I cannot go harder with useless mattress,” Ilya says regretfully. “Floor is killing my knees. Can you stand?”

“I think so.”

They clamber up and Ilya gently pushes Shane’s sternum until his back hits the cell door. “Turn around,” Ilya whispers into Shane’s ear. Shane does so, and Ilya maneuvers him so his chest and hands are splayed against the door, back arched and legs spread open. “Now you stay quiet and keep watch for screws,” Ilya says, pressing Shane’s cheek into the perforated surface forming the door’s window. “If you make noise, I stop. Pinch me for stopping. Okey?”

Shane nods. Then Ilya hooks two fingers into Shane’s mouth, pulling it open, and slides his leaking cock back inside Shane’s tight hole. Then he grabs Shane’s hip with his free hand, pulls back, and rams himself all the way in. Shane tries to stuff his fist into his mouth so no sound slips out, but Ilya’s fingers are in the way. He bites down onto his knuckles instead as Ilya slams inside again and again, drool running out of his mouth, down his chin, and onto the door. Shane is completely blissed out and has forgotten to check for screws; all he can think is Ilya, Ilya, Ilya.

Eventually, Shane reaches back and pinches the first bit of Ilya he can find. Ilya stops and pulls his fingers out of Shane’s mouth. “What is wrong?” he asks, tugging up so they are back to chest and running his hands up and down Shane’s ribs in a soothing motion. Ilya is still slotted inside Shane, and Shane is surrounded by Ilya’s warmth and musk. It feels divine.

Shane leans his head back onto Ilya’s shoulder and arches to wrap his arms around Ilya’s neck. “Nothing’s wrong. I’m just close and I want to be kissing and holding you when I come.”

Ilya groans and walks them back to the shitty mattress on the shitty concrete floor, where they resume their initial position. They pant into each other’s mouths and under a minute later, Shane’s orgasm builds again. Soon enough, he finds himself on the edge of a precipice.

“I- Ilya!” Shane chokes out, mind going blank as he spasms around Ilya’s dick. His chest gets painted with streak after streak of cum, and Shane clings to Ilya harder before urging him to keep chasing his own release.

“Shane!” Ilya cries out a moment later, pulsing into Shane’s body. Ilya narrowly avoids collapsing onto Shane’s chest, placing his weight on his elbows and remaining suspended above. Ilya catches his breath for a moment, then starts dragging his fingers over Shane’s abs, scooping up cum and feeding it back to Shane. Once he is satisfied that Shane is clean, he slips out and slides down Shane’s body, pressing his legs up and mirroring their starting point from earlier that night. Ilya starts enthusiastically lapping at Shane’s overstimulated hole and consuming his own spend.

“Give me some of that,” Shane murmurs through the fog in his brain.

Ilya obliges, returning to catch Shane’s lips in a searing kiss then pushing cum into his mouth. Shane moans and swallows avidly.

“That was fucking awesome,” Shane sighs contentedly.

Ilya is thoroughly spent. As predicted, Shane’s hole was heavenly, but Ilya was mentally unprepared for the additional sensations from anal and the lack of a condom. In all his years of being sexually active, Ilya has never fucked someone so tight, so warm, so responsive, so eager for his cock. Ilya could run on this high for months – not that he wants to. He’d much rather do this again and again and again, every chance they get. If there is such a thing as cock-drunk, Ilya is undoubtedly Shane’s-hole-drunk.

They’re still on the ground and Ilya is lying on top of a boneless Shane, caressing him all over. Then he stops. What the…? There are small circular indentations in Shane’s flesh.

“What?” Shane mumbles sleepily.

“You have circles on your cheek.”

Shane’s fingers join Ilya’s. “Oh my god. The fucking colander-style window in the door,” he guffaws.

They cackle uncontrollably, so loud that Steve eventually bangs against their shared wall and yells at them to shut up. They try to stifle their giggles, but they just end up belly-laughing all over again. Ilya’s heart soars with affection.

He wishes he could have this all the time, keep Shane all the time. Not just in here, but after. If only that were possible, he thinks as his stomach clenches. He tightens his hold on his lover.

Then Ilya is too sad, and he can’t laugh anymore.

Chapter End Notes

*The clinical term for ‘the hole your balls came from when they dropped’ is the inguinal canal. Although the act itself is nothing new, the term muffing was coined by Mira Bellwether who wrote the indispensable Fucking Trans Women zine in 2010. Although this icon recently died from cancer, you can still purchase the zine – it was only 10 USD when I got it. If you’re someone who has or may have sex with trans women and transfeminine folks, or if you’re also a nerd about sex, I highly recommend it!

 
*The thing with the hair is a dramatic and fictionalized retelling of a true story from my fieldwork in prison. The interviewee didn't get into specifics but she was sent to the hole after doing her hair with yarn, in a prison where she didn't have access to haircare products that are specific to Black women.

*For those who don't read French, that was the N word next to the T slur. It is a very harmful word and not to be taken lightly. I want to disclose that I'm a white person and debated whether to include this, and ultimately chose to include it. The reasoning is that one of my research participants said it about herself to highlight how she was viewed and treated within the prison system. And I think that as a Black trans woman who's an immigrant and a sex worker, Gabrielle sits at multiple intersections where people (in general but especially guards) feel entitled to treat her like shit. And she is fully aware of that and is done accepting it. Which is why she uses these slurs in referring to herself in front of that guard, to call it out in front of his colleagues. Anyway all that to say I hope it's clear that the point here is to illustrate that she's treated differently because she's Black, as prisons are racist institutions. And that it's not appropriate for white or non-Black people to use that word.

*I don't know if coconut oil is/was available at Bordeaux, these things are really up to each individual prison.

*Regarding the last scene, DO NOT DO THIS AT HOME, I repeat, DO NOT DO THIS AT HOME. Use real fucking lube, I beg of you. Most oils you’d find in your home or in your bedroom (looking at you, massage oil) aren’t safe for going inside your hole(s), and oils break down latex so the condom is more likely to break. Saliva is also not lube and it’s certainly not viscous enough for anal, and you’re also more likely to get an STI from using it anyway. Shane and Ilya are using coconut oil as a LAST RESORT and as the least unsafe option in a sea of unsafe options; this doesn’t mean it’s actually a good option. The educational intent of this chapter is to show how deprived of everything people are in prison and how that impacts their sex lives. I found research that said in Québec, providing safer sex supplies is at the discretion of each prison. Condoms and dental dams are only available in some places (either at commissary or in very limited quantities at the infirmary), while lube is rarely available at all. If you look at the commissary list example (which is not from Québec), there is neither lube nor condoms.

Chapter 7: Stupid Languages

Chapter Summary

Shane and Ilya navigate French, English, Russian, and prison argot, with a dash of Haitian Creole.

Chapter Notes

I added a visual in the previous chapter, you may want to go back! It's an example of a commissary list.

Établissement de détention de Montréal / prison de Bordeaux, March 2010

“Are you still working in notebook?” Ilya asks as he stretches his arms.

Ilya has been napping in the bottom bunk for a while, ever since Shane’s social battery got drained from spending too long in the common area. They’ve been doing that more and more: socializing to fill time, until Shane needs to tap out and they return to their quiet cell.

This thing, filling time, is such a foreign concept to Shane; he’s always treated every minute and every hour as commodities demanding optimization. But in here time stretches boundlessly for he and Ilya as they float in a liminal space between innocence versus guilt, between their past selves as hockey prodigies versus the uncertainty of their futures as incoming MLH rookies. Will the Metros and the Raiders still want them? Shane tries not to think about it too much. Either way, they are trapped in a loop that can only be interrupted once they go to trial.

Once they’re sentenced, they’ll be able to count down the days until their conditional release. This form of provisional freedom is awarded one-third of the way through a sentence to those whose behavior has been deemed good enough, so they can finish purging their time in the community. Their days spent in pre-trial detention will also be deducted from their sentence. So once a judge has reached a conclusive decision, the weight will be lifted: no more ambiguous status nor its partner in crime, unmitigated time.

At least they’ve spent their months in here learning how to adapt to prison life and Shane feels much more confident when navigating interpersonal dynamics. They now know whom to avoid, whom to be polite to, whom to posture around, and when to deescalate using reassurances or a well-placed joke. They’ve never actually discussed it, but Shane has naturally become the one who handles diplomacy and smooths ruffled feathers, while Ilya is the one to puff his chest and act threatening where required. Really, they have just transferred some of the skills they’ve acquired while navigating macho hockey culture and applied them to a higher-stakes environment.

Of course, all of that is for show; in here, in their cell, the masks fall off. This is where they can just be, where they can show each other their soft underbellies. Which is how Shane wound up regularly sneaking glances at a napping Ilya instead of writing. Could anyone really blame Shane? Ilya is beautiful at all times, but asleep he looks so peaceful and almost cherubic with his blonde curls spread out over the pillows. These have gotten longer in the two months they’ve been incarcerated, and Shane loves running his fingers through them and pulling at the ringlets to see them snap back into position. Okay, and he might also like tugging Ilya’s hair in general.

Shane stares at the notebook he’d been scribbling in earlier. How long has it been open in front of him, his pen poised and his studious intentions interrupted? “Not really,” he answers, abandoning his efforts in favor of cracking his neck and admiring Ilya some more.

“I still cannot believe you write down all the rules you learn,” Ilya says, gesturing at the notebook as Shane tucks it back onto the shelf.

“You know I’m bad at social cues! So when I notice something, I write it down and it helps me remember! And it’s not even the official rules, just the unspoken ones with the guys in here.” Shane knows Ilya is just teasing, but he still feels a little defensive. People have made fun of him his entire life for being the odd one out, and this is just one coping mechanism he’s picked up to make his differences less glaringly obvious.

Ilya smiles fondly. “Is not bad thing. Tell me what you added today, I will lie here and listen.” Ilya turns to fluff up the pillow, then sprawls back onto the bed.

“I thought you wanted to read this afternoon, to work on your English.”

“Listening to you read boring rules is still working on English!” Ilya counters.

Shane huffs. “Fine. I was updating the section on social hierarchy. We already knew that the people at the bottom are the rats, the ones who snitch to or side with the screws.”

“Yes.”

“Okay and we also know the guys think you and me are fine, cause if someone does us a favor we pay it back. And they like that we’ve started showing them how to train using their own or somebody else’s bodyweight.”

Ilya sighs. “Yes, but some of them still say is gay. I tell them is only gay if they make it gay, but they do not listen.”

Shane cringes. “I know. That’s actually what I was working on today, I’m pretty sure I’ve figured it out. So the ideal is being masculine, and by default that means being straight. Any sort of homosexuality threatens that masculinity. But then having gay sex is not as bad as being actually gay. And bottoming is worse than topping. So I think that from top to bottom, the hierarchy goes…” Ilya snorts at the accidental pun, and Shane glares. “It goes: straight man, usually-straight man who tops when he’s in prison, usually-straight man who bottoms in prison, actually-gay man who tops, actually-gay man who bottoms. But maybe the straight man who bottoms and the actually-gay man who tops need to be switched, or maybe they’re on the same level. Either way, it’s mostly about passing as straight and just not saying you like men. If you don’t want to get punched in the face or shunned.”

“What is shunned?” Ilya interjects.

“Like, getting ostracized, getting ignored and treated badly because nobody wants to be around you anymore.”

“Shunned. See, I am working on English! Will add this to personal dictionary. Which is in my head, not notebook, because I am not crazy person,” Ilya chirps.

Shane scowls and throws the pen at Ilya, catching him in the middle of the forehead. Ilya yelps. “Did you want my explanation, or you’re just trying to get a rise out of me because you’re bored?” Shane asks shrewdly. He knows for a fact it’s the second option.

Ilya sighs dramatically. “Keep going.”

“Also apparently it’s worse in Ontario than in Québec, so. We should probably thank whoever made the call to move the tournament from Ottawa to Montréal.”

“Maybe, but in Ottawa everything would not be in French and I would not have to ask people to translate all the time,” Ilya whines.

“Aw, pauvre chou! It’s so awful to need help!” Although Shane condescendingly calls Ilya a poor cabbage, he is secretly thrilled that he technically just used an endearment – people in Québec do sometimes refer to each other as ‘mon chou’ (my cabbage).

“Oh my god Hollander, you are doing this on purpose. What does that mean?”

“Wouldn’t you like to know,” Shane says smugly.

Ilya scowls. “Stupid French,” he grumbles. “Stupid English too.” Ilya thinks for a moment. “What does laypayee mean? Screws say it all the time.”

Shane shrugs. “No fucking clue. Must be a prison word.”

“Stupid prison words,” they both say at the same time, before dissolving into a fit of giggles.

“I’m almost done with my book, are you ready to switch soon?” Shane asks, peering down at Ilya. They’ve been using the bottom bunk as a makeshift couch, the second mattress propped upright in the crack between the wall and the bed. Shane is sitting up against this ‘backrest’, while Ilya uses Shane’s thick thighs as pillows.

“No, I am not done soon, stop pressuring me! Is not fair, is wrong language and alphabet for me!” Ilya complains. He’s not actually disgruntled, in fact he’s perfectly happy exactly where he is, splayed over Shane. Although his current book is a bit of a bummer; he wishes he could physically go to the library and switch. But no, they order a few books once a week after rifling through a Duo-Tang. If their selections aren’t available or if they’re terrible, they can’t do anything about it but wait until the following week. They are desperate enough for activities that they’ve gotten into a habit of reading each other’s selections and discussing them, like their personal (and very boring when it comes to Shane’s choices) book club.

Ilya loves this boring domestic routine they’ve fallen into; it structures their days, pacifies Shane who can be a little bit neurotic about disorder, and provides Ilya with a sense of safety. He hides a smile, affecting an exaggerated pout. “I am tired again anyway. You can start it if I fall asleep.”

“What if I read it to you out loud?” Shane offers.

“Okey.” Ilya is quite pleased with this development and settles in more comfortably, nuzzling into Shane’s stomach.

The next day

“What the fuck is this thing screws call us, laypayee? Is French insult?” Ilya asks Gabrielle and Jay. Of course Shane is there too; the four of them stand together in the yard on a warm spring day, busying themselves by kicking half-melted slush. Over the winter, Shane mentioned the gravel mixed into the snow almost looks like pepper in mashed potatoes; Ilya still cannot unsee it, especially now that the brown sludge could pass for gravy. He gags a little bit at the thought.

“Oh it stands for les P.I. which is an abbreviation for les personnes incarcérées. So, it’s a shorter way to say incarcerated people,” Jay explains. He’s not even looking at Ilya, seemingly distracted by the loud voices coming from another group. He’s probably scanning to make sure a fight doesn’t break out, or so they get out of the way in time if that does happen.

“I think the intent is to humanize us by calling us incarcerated people instead of inmates,” Gabrielle adds.

Ilya frowns. “Why do they make it sound like insult then?” He is quite certain he’s only ever heard the phrase used in a pejorative context.

“Because hate will shine through even if you use the most politically correct language on Earth.” Gabrielle nods, satisfied with her own nugget of wisdom.

Ilya ponders this for a second, then accepts it as fact. “So sometimes language dehumanizes us by accident, sometimes on purpose.”

“Wow, dehumanize, big word for you,” Shane chirps, though really he looks impressed.

Ilya rolls his eyes and waves Shane off. He’s not going to reveal that ‘dehumanize’ sounds almost the same in Russian; let Shane be secretly proud.

“Yes, sometimes it dehumanizes on purpose. Like in Haitian Creole, there are no words for queer people that are not slurs. If you do not have neutral or positive language to recognize you, it is easier to pretend you do not exist,” Gabrielle says, inspecting one of her braids. She had to cut them shorter once she got back from the hole last month, using blunt-edged craft scissors (it was a nightmare to saw through the acrylic yarn). Her braids have held decently but the fibres are fraying and her roots are growing out.

Ilya cringes. “Wow, and I thought Russia was bad. At least we have words.” His eyes widen; this is probably the first time he’s implied he’s queer in front of Gabrielle and Jay. They do not act any differently, though, and he relaxes. They definitely know he and Shane are something to each other; it’s not like his alleged queerness is news.

At that, Shane looks up from his personal pile of slush. “You never talk about being queer in Russia.” Oh, well there goes that plausible deniability.

Ilya shrugs uncomfortably, staring down at his feet. “Three times in my teens, they have tried to pass laws against homosexual propaganda. Did not work, but not because is progressive country. Also Orthodox church is not helping,” Ilya adds, mindlessly feeling for his chain and rubbing at the Russkiy pravoslavnyy krest – the Russian Orthodox cross – lying flat against his sternum. Ilya really doesn’t want to think about this, so he pivots. “Anyway what I really want to know is: what is shoo, in French? Shane keeps calling me this.”

“Don’t tell him!” Shane blurts.

Jay and Gabrielle look bemused. “Why not?” Jay asks.

Shane blushes. Interesting.

“He hasn’t earned it yet,” Shane states flatly.

“All right Hollander, how will I earn it?” If there’s one thing Ilya can do, it’s rise to a challenge set by Shane Hollander.

Shane thinks for a moment. “Hmm, I don’t know, but I’ll let you know when I decide,” he offers cheekily.

“Okey, moy pomidor,” Ilya answers airily, since Shane’s cheeks are still tinged pink. He’s such a cute little tomato.

Shane looks over sharply. “What’s that one mean?”

Ilya grins – it’s too easy. “Ah-ah-ah, I tell you if you tell me what shoo means!”

Shane scoffs. “Whatever.”

The guy who delivers commissary orders and library books – Kevin – walks by just then. “Eille salut, Dupont et Dupond, Gabrielle, Larivière.” Kevin nods his acknowledgement at all four of them and moves on to another group.

Ilya glances at Shane for a translation, but the latter just seems confused. “Euh, salut?”

“What did he say?” Ilya asks impatiently.

“Um, he said hi to all of us, but I think he called you and me Dupont? I don’t get it,” Shane answers.

“Oh, that’s too funny, I’m stealing that,” Jay guffaws.

“I love it,” Gabrielle adds, grinning broadly.

“What does it mean?” Really, Ilya is getting exasperated with all this French.

“It’s from an old Belgian comic book series, The Adventures of Tintin. There’s these two characters; I think they’re supposed to be twins? Anyway they look almost identical, except their mustache shape, and their names sound the same but with a slightly different spelling. It’s a joke about you two being so inseparable it’s getting hard to tell you apart,” Jay explains.

Recognition settles on Shane’s face. “Oh. I read some of those, the names are different in English though. Thomson and Thompson, I think?”

Ilya is still confused. “How could they confuse us?” They’re about the same height and have similar builds, but that’s about it.

Gabrielle pointedly scans Ilya, then Shane. Ilya looks down, then over at Shane. And, well… It turns out Kevin’s not that far off. He and Shane are both clad in pale gray sweatpants, dark gray crewnecks, and black beanies. Right. Ilya suddenly feels a little too warm and he pulls the hat off.

Jay is thoroughly entertained. “Aw, the big Russian menace is blushing,” he teases. “But don’t worry, as a rule of thumb: when a Québécois guy is called Kevin, you just don’t take him seriously. Ever.”

Ilya meets Shane’s gaze and once again finds they are equally baffled. French really is a stupid language, and so are the people who speak it.

Chapter End Notes

*Soooo, how are our not-boyfriends doing, do you think? They're exclusive, they act like an old married couple, what else will it take for them to have a fucking conversation about it?

*Real talk I would definitely have a rules notebook in prison. #ActuallyAutistic.

*Also this chapter is just a little bit of fluff ahead of the angst-ridden brick that will follow! You have been warned lol.

Chapter 8: Down

Chapter Summary

Shutdowns, lockdowns, and downward spirals – things are looking rough in cell E-2. Maybe being down bad for one another will help?

Chapter Notes

UPDATED TAGS. CW for homophobia, violence, mental health struggles. Reminder that this fic is also tagged hurt / comfort.

Établissement de détention de Montréal, March 2010

“J’ai dit que j’t’occupé, j’vas t’en donner plus tard !” Steve snaps. I said I’m busy, I’ll give you some later!

Shane warily eyes the situation. Steve and Ilya have been standing on the walkway just outside their cells, locked in a spirited debate over the merits of some type of car as opposed to another – Shane doesn’t know and truthfully, he doesn’t really care. He does care that Kevin has sauntered over and has repeatedly tried to catch Steve’s attention, hoping to get a cookie from the other man. Although he’s normally a very patient guy, Steve goes all-in on topics he’s passionate about and therefore does not appreciate interruptions when he’s in the middle of a conversation.

As for Kevin, he’s known to be volatile and especially so after visitation. Rumor has it there’s some sort of drama happening between him and his baby mama (with whom he’s in an on-again, off-again sort of arrangement). Kevin glowers now so Shane thinks the girlfriend probably called it quits again. Shit, this isn’t looking good.

“C’est quoi ton câlisse de problème, tu sors dans deux jours fait qu’t’es trop bon pour partager maintenant ?” Kevin says sharply, voice dangerously low. What’s your fucking problem, you’re getting out in two days so you’re too good to share now? He crowds into Steve’s personal space.

Ilya is still standing close, clearly confused over the nature of the argument currently happening in French. He points his thumb at Kevin and attempts a strained chuckle. “See Steve? This guy agrees with me, Jaguar XJ is superior to Audi A8.”

“Ta yeule, câlisse de tête carrée,” Kevin spits out. Shut up, fucking square head. Kevin is one of those nationalists who resent the history and legacy of British imperialism and settler colonialism in what is now called Québec, viewing the English as oppressors attempting to squash French Canadian culture and identity to this day. It makes no sense for him to use a derogatory term for Anglophones when Ilya is Russian, but then again nothing about the argument unfolding before Shane seems particularly rational.

Shane didn’t sleep well, as a newly admitted guy made a racket throughout the night. Right now it’s taking everything to monitor himself and to maintain the illusion of calm that’s required to handle this situation. Still, he steps in. “Eille, eille, je suis sûr qu’on peut s’arranger pour que tout le monde soit content. Kevin, peut-être que tu peux dire à Steve pourquoi c’était important pour toi de lui parler ?” he suggest calmly. Hey, hey, I’m sure we can figure something out so everybody’s happy. Kevin, maybe you can tell Steve why it was important for you to talk to him?

“Mind your goddamn business, fucking fags,” Steve growls and spits on the ground. “Don’t think I don’t hear you fucking every night.”

Shane freezes and feels the blood drain from his face. It takes everything in his power to keep his hands from shaking and to not reach for Ilya to steady himself. Ilya is similarly affected, pupils blown wide and face twisted in a panicked expression.

Steve turns back to Kevin. “Toi, si tu veux mes biscuits, tu vas t’excuser pis me l’demander gentiment.” If you want my cookies, you’re gonna apologize and ask nicely.

Kevin snarls. “Mange d’la marde esti, si j’veux des biscuits j’vas t’en prendre !” Eat shit, if I want your cookies I’ll take them!

Steve’s face reddens and contorts. “Que j’te voèye, mon tabarnak !” I’d like to see you try, fucker!

Kevin throws a lightning-quick jab, catching Steve under the chin before punching him in the stomach. Steve cries out in surprise and doubles over; Kevin pummels him relentlessly, bellowing an incoherent string of swear words. Steve falls to his knees and tries to cover his head, and that’s when both Shane and Ilya snap out of it and lunge forward. They grab Kevin’s arms, but the man is so furious he still manages to knee Steve on the left side of the face. Steve’s head snaps to the right and his entire body follows, twisting from the momentum. He throws his right hand out to catch himself but lands awkwardly on the wrist, hollering in distress.

Meanwhile Shane and Ilya have dragged Kevin back enough to create a buffer of empty space. Kevin struggles, trying to wrest his arms free, but Shane and Ilya hold him back with all the strength of professional athletes who have done their best to maintain their conditioning while incarcerated.

All of this over an oatmeal raisin cookie. Maybe Steve should have taken this Kevin seriously.

The urge to giggle bubbles up within Shane’s throat and he forces himself to swallow it down. Not the time nor place.

It takes a few minutes for a posse of screws in protective gear to make it into the wing and up three flights of stairs. As always, they’re only intervening because blood was drawn; in fact it is currently pouring down Steve’s face in abundant quantities. The guards take over and grab Kevin.

“T’es un tabarnak de fou !” Steve yells as Kevin gets dragged away. You’re a fucking psycho!

By now there is a genuinely ungodly amount of blood getting everywhere. Although the commotion has made other people gather, none have stepped forward to help out. It will also take a while for medical personnel to make it to the wing, as the infirmary is in a different area of the prison.

Shane sighs and steps into cell E-2. He grabs a handful of toilet paper and bunches it up, gently pressing it under Steve’s busted nose to try and staunch the flow. Then he and Ilya help Steve stand and slowly shuffle down the walkway, down the stairs, and to the wing’s door, where they make him sit until the medics arrive.

Shane is shaken. He’s witnessed and been involved in plenty of on-ice brawls and has gotten in one fight off the ice – it’s the reason he’s here, after all. In prison, Shane has also witnessed the occasional fight break out. But this one was so incredibly gratuitous, and so thoroughly uncalled for.

Then Shane looks down at his hands, which are bloody from trying to help out. His brain immediately gets stuck on the possibility of catching a blood-borne infection; Gabrielle has said these are so common in prison that it’s best to avoid shaking hands with other inmates, especially when your skin has scrapes or is very dry. Does Shane have any open wounds? Are bacteria or viruses making their way into his bloodstream in real time?

“Shane?” Ilya prompts gently, standing guard on the other side of Steve.

Shane doesn’t look up. “I, um, I need to go.”

He hurries back to their cell and scrubs his skin raw until the water runs clean. It doesn’t feel like enough. He trims his nails and reaches for the soap again, doing his best to get the final sliver of red out.

Once he’s done, he still doesn’t feel clean enough and his hands have not stopped shaking. There are scarlet droplets scattered over the walkway, like a pathetic imitation of a Pollock painting, and which remind Shane that Steve was there and that he will be back. Steve, who is apparently homophobic and has overheard he and Ilya fucking for who knows how long.

It doesn’t feel safe to stay. Shane instinctively grabs his towel and his shower caddy then power walks to the shared shower facilities, where he locks himself in a stall. He pulls the curtain aside to hang his caddy, while the towel goes on the right side of the two-pronged hooks on the stall door.

Shane rests his forehead against the battleship gray wall. He inhales deeply, holds, then exhales slowly. The metallic perimeter of the stall is cool against his skin, and he lays his palms flat against it until his heartbeat slows.

There. Better.

Once he feels sufficiently composed, Shane mechanically resumes his shower routine. He turns the hot and cold knobs to angles he’s memorized over the past months. He strips his shirt off as he waits for the water to settle to his preferred temperature – scalding – then carefully hangs it up. As he leans down to untie his shoelaces, he frowns.

Shit. I forgot my shower shoes.

Shane thinks about reaching back into the shower. Turning the knobs. Pulling his shirt back on. Collecting the caddy and the towel. Unlocking the stall. Pushing the door open. Walking through the room and out the door. Crossing the common area. Probably having to interact with a handful of people. Climbing a seemingly endless number of stairs. Taking a few more paces forward. Getting to the cell. (Which his nervous system still classifies as unsafe.) Sliding the door open. Stepping inside. Rummaging for his shower shoes, under the bed. Doing the whole thing back in reverse order.

Right now, it all feels like too much. Too many tiny tasks piled into an impossibly high summit, which he does not currently have the mountaineering skills to climb. If he tried, he would slip and tumble down, with nothing to break his fall. He would probably crash halfway across the common area, where everyone would see him lose it.

Not worth it.

He’ll have to ride out the sensory implications and hope for the best.

Still bent at the waist, Shane takes a steadying breath, then another, and unties both knots. He rises and toes one shoe off, then the next. Left hand splayed against the stall’s wall, he leans and tugs the left sock off with his right hand, swooping down to tuck it inside the left shoe while his foot still hovers in the air. Shane braces himself and tentatively puts his heel down on the floor. The tile is dry and pleasantly cool – good. He repeats the process for his right sock, feeling slightly more confident about his decision. Still good. Shane removes his pants and boxers, hanging them under his shirt, then pokes a hand back inside the shower, checking the water temperature. It’s perfect.

I’m okay. I can do this.

Shane pokes his left foot into the shower and carefully rests it on the ground. He winces. Fuck, it’s slimy. But he’s made up his mind, he’s committed to this decision not to return to the cell, so he wills his body forward and places his right foot next to the other. He shudders and pulls the curtain closed.

It’s just slimy from staying wet. It’s nothing bad.

Shane stands under the stream of hot water. The pressure is much too low for his preference, but at least the temperature feels nice. He feels himself relax. I’m okay, he tells himself.

Then Shane makes the mistake of looking down. The bottom of the shower is streaked orange with a mixture of soapy residue and unidentified gunk left to its own devices for too long. No wonder it’s so fucking slimy, his brain helpfully supplies. The drain is rimmed with brown. Your feet are touching this. Shane gags and forces his head back so his eyes are on the tiled ceiling. It is not better: there is mould growing in the grout.

Nauseated, Shane blindly turns the water off, rips the curtain open, and stumbles back into the dry area of the stall. Except he did not dry himself off, so now rivulets of water stream down his body and pool onto the floor. Shane shivers and reaches for his towel, breathing hard.

Fucking hell. They’re cut off from their families, they have no autonomy, they have to deal with the fear of physical and sexual violence, and somehow that’s not enough? They have to live in a disgusting environment as well? His gut roils as he shakily dries himself off and pulls his clothing back on. He thinks of the slime that probably got on his towel when he wiped his feet. Great. I'll have to do laundry now.

In a daze, Shane grabs his belongings and jerkily walks out of the stall, out of the shower room, through the common area. He thinks someone might have called his name, but there’s static in his brain and his ears are ringing and does it even matter anyway?

He slowly starts climbing. His legs and his feet feel too heavy to drag up, they keep catching against the edge of each stair. Shane stumbles and lets out a shapeless whimper when someone grabs his elbow in a steadying gesture. It hurts my skin. He pulls his elbow back and keeps going, vision tunneling on the steps ahead. By the time he reaches the cell door, his breathing is ragged.

He slides the door open and his nostrils are immediately assaulted by the smell of rotting orange peels. He drops his caddy and his towel and shakily reaches for the trash can. He attempts to pull the bag out but his fingers won’t cooperate. He grunts in frustration and keeps trying, until warm fingers wrap around his wrist.

“Let me,” comes a soft voice. It’s a little bit distorted, like Shane’s ears are under water, but he still recognizes it. Ilya. Ilya is here. He lets go of the bag and leans into the warm, solid body.

Strong arms wrap around Shane and he wants them to squeeze harder, but words feel just out of reach. Like language still exists somewhere inside his brain, but Shane would have to find his way through a labyrinth to access it.

“Is okey, Shane, I am here,” Ilya assures.

Shane just… stops trying to hold himself together. He lets out a single sob and collapses into Ilya.

Later, he surfaces back into awareness and finds that he is in his bunk, completely pinned down by Ilya’s body. He runs diagnostics – throat dry, toes a little numb, but otherwise fine. He moves on to assess the events of the past hour and – oh.

Shane shifts, a little embarrassed over having been observed in such a state. Ilya immediately moves to the side and leans into the wall. His worried gaze quickly scans Shane’s features. “Better?” he asks quietly.

Shane nods. “Yeah. Better.” He looks away. “Um, thank you. For that,” he mumbles.

Ilya rubs Shane’s sternum. “Of course. Ah, what… what happened?” Shane looks back at Ilya, who seems dismayed.

Shane swallows. “Um, what Steve said. About us.” He doesn’t think he needs to spell it out any more than that.

“Ah. Yes. I was nervous about this too but then I remembered Steve was speaking English, so Kevin did not understand. And Steve is at infirmary and will leave in two days, so is not like he will be spreading rumors. Nobody else was close enough to hear. So we are okey.”

Shane thinks it through. It’s true that rationally, they’ll probably be fine. Irrationally, he’s still gearing up for the worst possible outcome, the nature of which remains to be seen.

“Is not what I meant,” Ilya continues. “I meant what was this, that just happened?” Ilya cocks his head, expression warm and open. He is not judging, it really just seems like he wants to understand.

“Um. I shut down. It happens sometimes, when my emotions or senses get overloaded. Today was both. It’s not usually this bad, though, and it’s rare,” Shane rushes to add. He doesn’t want Ilya to think he’s a basket case who is prone to becoming unresponsive and catatonic at the drop of a dime.

“Okey,” Ilya nods, simple as that. “But if it happens again, what should I do?”

Shane feels overcome with emotion. What did he do to deserve this sweet, caring man? A man who is currently looking back at Shane like he’s ready to melt his own body into a protective layer, a buffer between Shane and the world?

Shane’s eyes dampen and he blinks furiously. “Take me somewhere quiet and where other people won’t see me. No gentle touches, just deep pressure. Don’t try to get me to talk. And then just wait.”

“Okey, I can do this,” Ilya says easily, before leaning in and pressing a soft kiss to Shane’s lips.

Shane sighs contentedly. I’m okay, he repeats to himself, and for the first time today it might be true.

A few days later

Ilya’s mind reels as he rifles through the memory of the phone call he just had with the immigration lawyer. In the two months he’s been here, Ilya has had a lot of issues on that front. First, although Yuna helpfully provided a list of candidates, it was a struggle to find someone who would agree to take on such a time-sensitive case which would also overlap with criminal proceedings. Then the lawyer who agreed to join on, Maître Grenier, faced obstacles in securing some crucial documents. This was in part due to Grigori Rozanov's refusal to help. Further delays were tacked on since prison authorities are in possession of Ilya’s passport, and the entire organization was recently put through a series of lockdowns to destabilize the underground economy after several drones were spotted flying over the yard.

Today, Ilya finally managed to get hold of Maître Grenier over the phone. He runs through the conversation once more.

“I have good news and not great news,” Maître Grenier started, brusque and no-nonsense as always. “Which do you want first?”

Ilya gulped. “The good.”

“So it turns out that you are good to stay in Canada for up to six months. When you applied for the visa, you declared when you expected to leave – that’s probably why you thought it was limited to the dates of the tournament. But when you came into the country, the border services officer did not stamp your passport and did not put in a date by which you should be gone. This means you get to stay until June 24^th, 2010.”

Ilya blew out the breath he’d apparently been holding. He could have cried from relief. “That is good news. What is bad?”

“If you’re found guilty of a crime, you would likely be declared inadmissible to Canada under section 34(1)(e) of the Immigration and Refugee Protection Act. Essentially you would be considered a danger to other people’s lives or safety, so they could deport you and ban you from coming back into the country. And/or they can say you’re inadmissible on grounds of criminality, which is section 36(2)(b). This one would apply if you’re found guilty of assault, because even though that can be prosecuted summarily, it’s still an indictable offence.”

Ilya felt a little lost in the legal jargon but he understood enough for his heart to sink. “So I would not be able to play in MLH.”

“That is the issue, yes. However for the first type of inadmissibility we could leverage article 34(2), which says the Minister can exempt you from that rule if you prove that your presence in the country would not go against national interest. For the second type of inadmissibility, you would have to see with your other lawyer if you can get your record suspended. This is another way to lift the inadmissibility.”

Ilya forced his breathing to slow down. “Okey. Okey. So everything is not fucked.”

Maître Grenier huffed. “No, Mr. Rozanov, everything is not fucked.”

“Okey. Good. Um, I also realize we have not spoken of this, but I wanted to ask how paying you will work? Since I am in here and do not have access to bank account in Russia.”

“Oh don’t worry about it, Mr. Rozanov, everything’s been sorted already.”

Ilya frowned. He thought his father’s unwillingness to provide documentation meant he would not be involved in covering legal fees. “I am not sure what you mean.”

“I am billing your friend, Mr. Hollander, and his mother will be handling payment. So we’re all good,” Maître Grenier assured.

“Okey, thank you,” Ilya replied distantly. “I must go now.”

Ilya finally reaches the cell and forcefully slides the door open. Its little wheels clang against the edge of their rails, and that’s as close as he can get to slamming this stupid fucking thing.

Shane looks up from his book, startled. He starts to smile then frowns when he catches Ilya’s expression. “What’s wrong? What did the lawyer say?”

“What is wrong? What is wrong?” Ilya scoffs, throwing the calling card down on the desk. “What is wrong is that you went behind my back!” He toes off his shoes and angrily kicks them under the bed.

Shane blinks. “What do you mean?” he asks slowly. He seems genuinely baffled, like he couldn’t possibly have done anything warranting this reaction. Ilya’s outrage increases tenfold.

“You are paying immigration lawyer without asking me!” Ilya raises his voice, gesticulating wildly.

Shane winces at the volume, then gracelessly clambers off the bed. “Okay, um. I’m… sorry?” He looks very confused.

Ilya groans and drops his arms, tilting his head back in exasperation. “See, this is problem. You do things, you try to fix everything, but you do not see how it is wrong.”

Shane bites his lower lip. “I… Okay. Can you… will you tell me why it’s wrong?” His voice wobbles, and his pupils are a little glassy.

Fuck. Ilya does not want to explain, and he does not want Shane to be sad. He wants his fury to be met with anger, so they can both yell about it and Ilya won’t feel bad about losing his temper. But of course sweet Shane with his loving and stable parents would address conflict as calmly as possible and avoid escalation.

Ilya inhales deeply and closes his eyes, rubbing at the crease in the middle of his forehead. He feels a migraine coming on. “Is wrong because I need autonomy,” he says as evenly as he can. His voice is still louder than it usually would be. “We are in here,” he gestures vaguely, “and we have no control over anything, and it is driving me crazy. I cannot also deal with you treating me like I cannot make my own decisions. You already pay for everything in here, and I feel useless, and I do not want to feel useless.” He opens his eyes again.

Shane’s features have morphed into a remorseful expression. “Okay. I see why you’re upset. I’m sorry I didn’t ask and that I didn’t tell you after either. And also, you’re not useless, you’re…” He stops abruptly. “You’re you,” he whispers. He says it like it’s synonymous with ‘you’re everything’, and all the fight drains out of Ilya.

Ilya loses what little composure he has left. He blinks rapidly and scowls as one salty drop escapes onto his cheek, furious over his tear ducts’ betrayal. “I am sorry too,” he starts, voice cracking. “That I yelled. I know you did not mean to be controlling. Is just…” Ilya looks away as more tears roll down his face. “My father is controlling.”

Shane’s face crumples and he steps forward, wrapping an arm around Ilya’s back and the other around his neck. Shane’s hold tightens and Ilya leans into it. “I’m sorry, mon chou, I’m so sorry,” he says, peppering Ilya’s face with kisses. He’s smearing tears all over Ilya’s cheeks, but it’s okay because he’s not going anywhere, Ilya hasn’t scared him off with his outburst, they’re still fine. Ilya clings to Shane and exhales shakily.

Then Shane lets go. “I, um. Are we okay?” he asks nervously.

Ilya nods. “Yes. We are okey.”

“Okay, um. Good. I’m glad. I – I’m going to take a walk around the wing,” Shane says, taking a step back.

Ilya makes to follow. “Okey, I will come.”

Shane shakes his head. “No, um. I need to be alone.” He pauses and steels himself before continuing. “I don’t do well with yelling, and I need to go convince my nervous system that we’re safe.”

Ilya’s heart breaks a little bit at that. “Shane, you know I –”

Shane interrupts him. “I know I’m safe. I know you would never hurt me. Just, my body forgot. So I need a little space until it remembers. Then I’ll be back. Okay?”

The knot in Ilya’s throat asphyxiates him and he can’t do anything but nod. Shane shoves his feet inside his shoes without bothering to tie them and ducks out of the cell, throwing an apologetic glance over his shoulder as he disappears out of sight.

Ilya can’t help but feel abandoned. The scab is ripped clean off a long-festering wound buried deep within, flooding his chest with anguish. Everybody he loves always leaves, because Ilya doesn’t deserve to be loved back. All he can do is cling to people for as long as they are willing to tolerate him, then grieve their loss.

Loves.

Oh.

Shit.

I am in love with Shane Hollander.

And I made Shane feel unsafe.

So Shane will leave me too. Just like mama.

Ilya climbs into his bunk, wraps himself in the thin blanket, and cries himself to sleep.

The next day

Shane is worried sick. Yesterday, once he self-regulated enough to return to the cell, he found Ilya in bed and uncommunicative. Ilya has only moved once since then, to relieve himself. He has not eaten, has not had anything to drink, and has only answered Shane’s gentle prompting with monosyllabic words. He has not initiated a single conversation, which is profoundly uncharacteristic behavior. Shane has held a silent vigil for over twenty-four hours, only leaving their cell to fetch food. It’s now past dinnertime.

“Ilya,” Shane tries again, holding a glass in his left hand and reaching his right hand into the top bunk to squeeze the other man’s shoulder. “I need you to sit up and take a sip.” Ilya doesn’t so much as grunt. “Ilya,” Shane tries again. “Please. It’s not good for you to go so long without food or water.”

“Why do you care,” Ilya asks flatly, voice muffled by the blanket he’s drawn over his head.

Shane’s stomach drops. Well, might as well be honest. “I care because I care about you,” he enunciates. Ilya doesn’t answer, so Shane pulls the blanket down a little bit to expose his face. Shane clocks the dark circles under Ilya’s eyes, the greasy skin and hair, and the cheeks that seem hollow (though that’s probably Shane’s imagination).

They make eye contact, and Shane tries to put all the feeling he can into his voice. “I care about you, Ilya. It’s okay that you’re not feeling good, but you still need to take care of your body.” Shane stops, running a finger over Ilya’s cheek. Ilya’s eyes close and leans into the touch. “If that’s too hard to do on your own, I’ll help you, okay?”

Ilya blinks and tears well up in his eyes. “Okey,” he whispers.

“Okay. Can you sit up for me?” Ilya nods and clumsily complies. “Good.” Shane passes Ilya the cup and wordlessly gestures for him to take a sip. “A little more, mon chou. Good.” Shane leaves the glass on the desk next to the food he’s saved for Ilya, then returns. “Okay, now you’re going to come down and eat a little bit.”

Ilya tries to get down the rungs of the bunkbed but his limbs shake – he’s probably weak from hunger. Shane wordlessly grabs Ilya by the waist and lifts him down. Once Ilya is safely on the ground, Shane pulls the desk chair out and leads Ilya by the shoulders until he’s seated. Shane encourages Ilya to eat a little bit, praising him and rewarding him with a kiss to the temple every time he takes a bite.

“Okay, let’s clean you up a little bit now.”

Shane brings Ilya to the toilet and sits him down on the lid, then prepares and hands him the toothbrush. Once dental hygiene has been deemed adequate, Shane uses a cloth to sponge bathe Ilya and does his best to wash Ilya’s curls in the sink portion of the toilet. He mostly succeeds in keeping the water inside the sink and off the floor.

Then Shane leaves Ilya sitting there. He strips the bedding off the mattress on the bottom bunk, carefully folds it and puts it away. Then he grabs the mattress from the top bunk, drags it down, and layers it onto the bottom bunk.

Ilya looks at him blankly. “What are you doing?”

Shane shrugs. “We’re having a sleepover.”

“But what about screws seeing us and talking about it?”

Shane waves him off. “I don’t care about them. I care about you, and you need me. So.”

Ilya smiles a little bit at that and Shane considers it a win.

It’s lights out and they’re lying on their sides, forehead to forehead, Shane’s fingers lightly massaging Ilya’s scalp. Ilya still feels a little numb – as he usually does during depressive episodes – but the dull ache in his chest is somewhat soothed by Shane’s attentive ministrations.

They’ve been quiet for a long time, and Ilya clears his throat before speaking. “I do not like you seeing me like this,” he admits quietly. He feels braver under cover of darkness.

Shane presses his face further against Ilya’s until they can practically tickle one another with their lashes. “I understand. But I’m not leaving you to deal with this on your own. I trust you to take care of me when I’m not doing well, and I want you to trust me to do the same for you too, okay?” Ilya tries to protest but Shane doesn’t let him pull away. “I’m here for you, baby, okay?” Shane whispers against his lips.

And Ilya, well, Ilya fully melts at that, letting out a probably undignified sound. He presses his mouth to Shane’s and probes with his tongue along the seam until Shane lets him in. They kiss languidly until Ilya angles his hips and not-so-accidentally bumps their erections together. They groan into each other’s mouths and Shane grips a handful of Ilya’s ass, tugging to close the gap between their bodies. Ilya starts grinding but Shane grabs his hip and stills him.

“Let me take care of you, Ilya. Do you trust me?”

Ilya’s heart flips. “Yes, I trust you,” he whispers, his accent thickened by lust.

Shane sits up and works Ilya's briefs off before returning to his initial position. He breathes against the shell of Ilya’s ear. “Good boy,” he murmurs, and Ilya shivers.

Oh.

That’s new.

Ilya sighs when Shane sucks on his earlobe, then again as Shane trails a skilled tongue down his neck, along his clavicle, and up the slope of his shoulder. Shane bites into the muscle, eliciting a groan. Then Shane licks into Ilya’s mouth again, more fervently this time. He runs his fingernails lightly up and down Ilya’s back, before hitching Ilya’s leg over his hip. Shane makes a noise of satisfaction now that he has better access to Ilya’s ass. He palms at the muscular globes, purring about how juicy and lovely it feels.

Then Shane pauses. “Can I touch you here?” he asks, daintily pressing a finger into Ilya’s cleft.

Ilya wants to agree but he hesitates. “I am not clean.”

“You’ve been fasting. You’re fine. If it’s a yes for you, it’s a yes for me.”

Ilya nods against Shane’s forehead. “Da. Is a yes for me.”

Shane wordlessly twists and reaches for the coconut oil under the bunk. Once he’s ready he turns back and kisses Ilya deeply, slicked finger held up in the air. Then he moves and slowly drags his finger against Ilya’s rim.

Ilya’s breath catches. Shane traces torpid circles, and Ilya is surprised to discover the pleasure elicited by this heretofore untapped assemblage of nerve endings. No one else has ever approached this area of his body, and he’s only ever summarily touched himself there for hygienic purposes. So it’s safe to say he had no inkling that it could feel like this.

Shane teases the furl of muscle for a long time, maintaining his relentless assault into Ilya’s mouth. When Ilya starts to push back against his finger, Shane gently presses the tip inside Ilya’s pucker, prompting a low groan.

“You’re such a good boy, letting me in like this. You’re doing so good for me,” Shane praises, slowly moving his finger in and out of Ilya’s hole and working it in deeper. Ilya clings to him and eventually starts bearing down, urging Shane further inside.

Shane chuckles against Ilya’s lips. “Mm, getting greedy are you? Don’t worry baby, I’ll give you what you need.” Ilya whimpers helplessly, then rolls his eyes back as Shane presses into the small bundle of nerves. Ilya produces a sound he’s never heard himself make, and he’d likely feel embarrassed if he weren’t so utterly lost in the blissful waves ebbing and flowing through him.

Shane skilfully massages Ilya’s prostate for a while, eventually instructing him to touch himself. Ilya obeys, screwing his eyes shut as his hand flies over his cock. Just as Ilya feels himself inching closer to the edge, Shane speaks up.

“I like you,” he confesses against Ilya’s mouth.

Ilya’s entire body tightens, hole clenching around Shane while his own fist clamps down on his dick. Then Ilya keens, coming uncontrollably between his and Shane’s abs and riding the aftershocks for a long moment.

Ilya has quite literally never orgasmed so hard. He pants heavily for several minutes, attempting to recover as Shane gently caresses his back and kisses his face.

Finally, Ilya reaches for Shane’s bulge, but his movement is immediately interrupted. “Not tonight, baby. Tonight’s just about taking care of you.”

Ilya blinks. As something of a service top, he has pleasured people without necessarily wanting them to reciprocate. However, no one has ever gotten him off without expecting anything in return. “You are sure?” he asks uncertainly.

“Yeah, I’m sure. Let me get the washcloth, then we can go to sleep.”

Later, Ilya fights off a yawn to whisper, “Please do not leave me.” He’s not sure whether he means tonight, or in general.

“I’m not going anywhere, mon chou,” Shane promises.

Ilya tries to hold onto Shane tighter, but his limbs feel too heavy. “I like you too,” he mumbles.

“I know, baby.”

They doze off tangled together and, from that day forth, both mattresses live on the bottom bunk. Shane and Ilya no longer bother with rounds, nor with timers, nor with maintaining the pretense of sleeping apart.

Chapter End Notes

*Hope you enjoyed gaining insight into autistic shutdowns, they really fucking suck and often sound crazy to people who aren’t autistic!

*An explanation on French Canadian culture and swear words for you. First, swears are all Catholic cause we’ve got an ambivalent relationship to religion over here: Catholicism is credited for facilitating the survival of our culture through British rule, while also perpetuating some other forms of oppression. Esti, from hostie, references the wafer used during communion. Câlisse is for the chalice. Tabarnak is for the tabernacle. Sacrament is for the holy Sacrement. Criss is for Christ. Not-so-fun-fact, the relationship to Catholicism is so weird that the Québec government literally passes law to ban religious symbols within the government/worn my its employees, while also maintaining things like a fucking crucifix at the National Assembly as a patrimonial symbol. Also, the whole nationalist discourse is uncomfortable as fuck cause it completely glosses over the fact that our ancestors literally did the exact same – settler colonialism and oppressing Indigenous Peoples – for like 200 years before the British.

*I had to read through 2010 versions of Canadian immigration law to write this chapter. Please do not take anything in here as legal advice: first of all, because some of the articles I’m citing have been repealed; second, cause even though I'm very smart I’m literally not a lawyer I’m just doing my best with this lol.

Chapter 9: Labor

Chapter Summary

Emotional labor is performed and Ilya’s dire need for prison labor is explored.

Chapter Notes

*CW for references to safety issues in the context of sex work and to how sexual assault is treated depending on the victim and the perpetrator. Deeper dive into mental health issues (depression, complex trauma, suicide). The chapter is not as heavy as I am making it sound, though? I think? Please weigh in.

*I added Rape / non-con as an archive warning because I think at this point even if nothing does happen, they talk/think about it enough that I’d rather the warning be clear in case folks don’t read the other tags.

Établissement de détention de Montréal / prison de Bordeaux, the next day

“Was it my fault?”

Ilya looks down at Shane who is tucked against his side, pinning his hips down with a sturdy thigh. The first rays of morning light catch on Shane’s face, highlighting his freckles. It’s their first time waking up together and Ilya thinks it couldn’t be any more perfect, despite the tiny twin-sized bed which was absolutely not designed to hold two six-foot-tall, two-hundred-pound men, and the fact that Shane’s leg is pressing down on his bladder. He blinks a few times, trying to understand the question. “Was what your fault?”

Shane intently inspects the light dusting of hair on Ilya’s chest, tracing each curl one by one. “We fought and next thing I know you’re in bed, not talking or eating, for more than one day.”

An intense wave of guilt blasts through Ilya. Shit. Shane did not grow up with a profoundly unhappy mother who would take to her bed – sometimes for weeks on end – only to emerge with greasy hair and sunken cheeks and a half-smile that looked more like a grimace than anything remotely reassuring. “Ah, yes and no.” Shane tenses, and Ilya rushes to expand on his thoughts. “No, no, I do not mean it was your fault, is nobody’s fault. Just… it happens for no reason sometimes. And sometimes it happens because another thing happened. This time, was fighting. I do not know how to explain it.”

Shane looks up, squeezing Ilya’s pec. “Can you try?”

“I cannot do this now.” Shane lips twist down, and Ilya quickly pipes up again. “I mean, I cannot do this now because I need to take piss.” Is Ilya just buying time to gather his thoughts? Maybe a little bit. But it’s true that he needs to piss, so.

“Oh.” Shane lifts his leg off of Ilya, who gracelessly makes his escape.

Once his business has been handled and he’s back under Shane, Ilya closes his eyes and takes a steadying breath, trying to hold his apprehension at bay. “I am… empty sometimes. Inside.” He nibbles at his inner cheek. “Like everything that is me drains out and all that is left is too much sadness. Or nothing at all. And then I do not want to do anything, and doing things feels like too much, so I do not, and I stay in bed. Even if I cannot really sleep.” Ilya pauses. “With hockey, I am so busy, it helps me not think about sad things. And usually I can push through. But in here…”

“There’s nothing to distract you,” Shane infers quietly.

“Yes. I have nothing to do but think and feel, and then I think too much and feel worse.” Ilya hesitates. “And… our fight. Reminded me of bad things. And sometimes bad memories take over and they feel so real, maybe more real than what is really happening. Is like I am reacting to something that happened years ago, instead of reacting to now.”

Shane turns, blanketing Ilya’s body with his own and pressing his cheek to Ilya’s. “Oh, chou. I’m so sorry. I’m sorry you felt like that, and that our fight set it off.” Shane presses light kisses all over Ilya’s face, which tickles so Ilya squirms, but really he does not want it to stop at all. Lying in a Shane-cocoon, he feels cherished, like maybe he’s worth something just for existing. Like maybe there is more value to him than what he can do for other people or how many records he can break. Like he does not need to prove anything at all.

Propped up on his forearms, Shane gently kisses Ilya. “Would you want to tell me about the bad memories that came up?”

Ilya twitches. Can he really go there? Can he trust Shane to hold the devastating truth of how broken Ilya is? Won’t that just push Shane away? His beautiful Shane who has a loving family, and who gives and gives and thinks nothing of it. What if the void inside Ilya sucks everything out of Shane too? What would he do then? He could never live with that guilt.

Ilya feels a sudden urge to hide, to tuck away the ugliness that lives in a corner of his soul and hope it never touches Shane.

Shane still hovers above, forehead creased, attentively scanning Ilya. He apparently picks up on Ilya’s hesitation. “It’s okay if you don’t want to. But if there’s something specific that I did that made you remember bad things, I’d like to know so it doesn’t happen again. I promise I won’t push for more details than you want to give, I just want to do my best to not make you sad if I can help it.”

Ilya’s throat tightens at that. “Okey,” he whispers. “If we fight again, can you… not leave so soon?” Ilya gulps, apprehensively eyeing Shane. Please say yes, stay, stay, stay, don’t leave.

Shane’s face falls a little at that. “Oh, Ilya. I’m sorry I left and that I made you feel bad. I, um. I’ll try.” Shane looks away and Ilya’s heart hammers in his chest. “I want to say I won’t leave, but I’m not sure I can keep that promise. I think I also need you to try something for me.”

Ilya immediately remembers why Shane left. He’d said something about his body forgetting it was safe because Ilya had raised his voice. “I will try not to yell.”

Shane’s lips curve up into a half-smile. “Did we just agree to fight better?”

Ilya grins, wraps his arms around Shane, and flips them so their positions are reversed. “No. We have played against each other, you know I am better fighter. We agreed to fight nicer.”

Shane quirks an eyebrow. “You just think you’re a better fighter because you get in fights more often.”

“Oh? And you think you can do better, with no practice?” Ilya chirps.

“I know I can do better with no practice. Some of us are just naturally skilled at everything,” Shane volleys back.

Now both of Ilya’s eyebrows reach for his hairline. “Okey so you are Mr. Arrogant Asshole now.”

“Well I’m pretty sure it’s not arrogance if it's true. I overheard that somewhere, you know,” Shane smirks.

Ilya’s breath stutters. Shane remembered something he’d said over a month ago? Fuck, I love him so much. He presses a chaste kiss to Shane’s cheek as he recovers. “Whoever said this was probably very smart,” he concurs sagely.

Shane grins devilishly. “Meh, he’s fine. He’s decent in bed, though.”

Ilya growls. “Brat! I will show you decent in bed!” He leans down and bites one of Shane’s nipples none too gently.

Shane yelps and tries to wrestle Ilya off, but those efforts are half-hearted at best. After all, he is Ilya’s match, and he would have no trouble getting out of Ilya’s clutches if that was actually what he wanted. He is so perfect, Ilya thinks, smiling to himself.

Ilya still feels off, he’s not cured, and he might never be. But maybe he’s not quite as alone as he thought, maybe there’s someone in his corner even through the bad. And maybe this time around, the person he loves will love him back enough to stay.

A few days later

“Why aren’t there more jobs in here?” Shane asks. He’s been thinking about Ilya’s predicament, how having nothing to do makes his mental health worse.

Jay leans against the fence and shrugs. “I really don’t know.”

“But like, 60 jobs for 1,300 inmates is ridiculous, right? Shouldn’t there be more? If they can have two guys whose job it is to clean the vans, why can’t we have a team of guys whose job it is to clean the prison? The shower room is fucking nasty, and I doubt it’s better in the other wings!”

Jay sighs. “I don’t have an answer for everything, you know. I just know they use the privilege system to decide who gets a job, like someone who’s been sentenced and has been on the waitlist longer and isn’t considered récal’ would have more chances of getting one.”

Ilya, who’d been playing a game of pick-up basketball, jogs up just then. “Remind me what récal’ means again?” he asks, slightly out of breath. His sweaty compression shirt is plastered against his skin, and Shane wordlessly hands Ilya’s crewneck over so he doesn’t get too cold.

Ilya pulls the sweater on and winks at Shane, who realizes he’s been caught staring. Fucker. It’s not his fault those shirts show everything! They’re made to be distracting. “It’s short for récalcitrant, someone who doesn’t obey orders or refuses to be controlled.”

“Ah, yes, I remember. So not like you, then,” Ilya smirks.

Shane flushes. “Shut up, don’t say that where there’s people!” he hisses. “Besides, you like getting bossed around too,” he mutters under his breath.

Not quietly enough, apparently, as Ilya grins cheekily. “Only by you, solnyshko. And Jay will not tell, right Jay?”

“No, I really don’t care what you freaks get up to,” Jay rolls his eyes.

“What do they get up to?” Gabrielle asks as she strolls over with a guy whose name Shane hasn’t bothered to learn yet, some recent transfer from Rivière-des-Prairies prison.

Great. They have a whole audience now. “We get up to nothing, because there’s no jobs.” Shane glares at Ilya, willing him to stop discussing their sex life now that some rando has joined.

“Yes, is very terrible, I need a job,” Ilya whines dramatically.

“You’d complain all the time if you had a job,” Shane snipes.

“Yes, I would, but I would like it more than doing nothing,” Ilya agrees easily.

“If you had a job, you’d only get yard time after dark and you’d complain about that too,” Jay notes.

“Aw, you scared of the dark?” the new guy teases. “Must be tough after lights out. Good thing you bunk with a big strong guy who can fight the monsters under your bed!”

“Fuck off, if anyone is big strong guy, is me,” Ilya laughs good-naturedly.

Gabrielle elbows Ilya. “Mm I would not be so sure, I think you might be a princess who needs saving. Good thing Shane is there.” Ilya pretends to place a crown on his head and to flip his hair over his shoulder, and Gabrielle mock-curtsies to him.

“That’s me, my calling in life is to rescue Ilya from the monsters and the tiny little bugs,” Shane says drily. Really, he can’t help but think it would be nice to always be the one Ilya calls upon when he’s afraid of spiders, or of the demons that gnaw at his insides.

Ilya feigns offense. “Shane! I told you this in confidence! Betrayal!”

Shane rolls his eyes. “You did not tell me you’re afraid of bugs, I figured it out when your dramatic ass screeched so loud you almost busted my eardrum.”

Ilya points at him. “Do not start, you like my dramatic ass. And it was big cockroach! Of course I scream! I know they disgust you too.”

Shane puts his hands up in a pacifying gesture. “Fine, fine. It was pretty big and gross.”

“Not to get in the middle of your roommate argument or anything, but if you want to stay busy so bad, you could sign up for school,” Jay suggests.

“Ugh, no. Only options are finishing high school in French or doing French Second Language. The first I do not need. And I already have second language. Cannot handle one more.” Shane doesn’t like how dejected Ilya looks after admitting that.

The next day

“Why don’t you just barter with people for services rendered?” Jay suggests to Ilya. “Like Gabrielle does for sex or like I do when I make cigarettes for someone. Maybe something you’re good at from your actual job? If you ever do tell us what the big mystery is.”

“Mm, maybe.” Ilya leans over the railing to throw a memo he’s folded into a paper plane. He watches as it flutters down into the common area, eventually landing on someone’s head. The guy is thoroughly confused, then looks up and catches Ilya waving from the walkway on the top floor of the wing. He flips Ilya the bird, then returns to his conversation. Mischief managed.

“Maybe you could clean the common areas in the sector. Maybe ask the guards for products, and get people in the wing to pool resources to pay you?” Gabrielle proposes. The four of them have been lined up along the rail for a while now, peering down to people-watch; she seems thoroughly bored. Well, aren’t we all.

Shane’s nose wrinkles in disgust. “If you want to do it then go for it. But I wouldn’t without industrial quality rubber gloves, maybe even a hazmat suit. Have you looked at the bottom of the showers or at the ceiling? Fucking nasty.”

Ilya agrees, but maybe it would be better than doing nothing and getting swallowed up by his feelings. Ugh, he really doesn’t want to think about that right now. “How is business going, Gabrielle?”

“It is fine. Maybe a little bit better than it would be outside.”

Jay seems surprised. “What do you mean?”

Gabrielle sighs. “Well, despite everything,” she gestures vaguely, “I think it is safer in here for me than out in the world. Everyone knows I am the only girl and that they should stay on my good side if they want to get their dicks wet. So maybe more accurately, it is a scarcity mindset masquerading as safety.”

Ilya frowns. “But are you not worried about everyone being criminals?”

“Oh well, most people are not in here for violent crimes, or nothing too serious, unless they are waiting for their trial and to get sent to the penitentiary. And I always vet clients. In here, I just pay attention to gossip, did the guy hurt women? Does he say awful things? Does he overstep in other contexts?” She shrugs. “Vetting is probably easier because we all live together. And I prefer to have a roster of vetted regulars than to accept anyone. It is good for me and good for business, as it creates a sense of exclusivity. And then I get to charge more for the privilege of having access to my time and body.”

“I can see how that would be safer,” Shane says. “Is it… worse? Outside?”

Gabrielle presses her lips together in a thin line and fiercely stares off into the distance (which is not very far, just the cells across the wing from them). “Out there, if a working girl gets beaten up or raped and goes to the cops, they will laugh in her face and say she was asking for it. And I do not think it would be any better in here, if something happened. We are already all criminals and they think nothing of us.”

Gabrielle gathers her thoughts for a moment as her friends patiently wait her out in silence. “They do not care that rape is always against the law, even in here and even when victims have done bad things. And it is no surprise, really. It is part of screws’ jobs to do something that feels very close to sexual assault, or at least harassment. They humiliate us and force us to get naked and to subject our bodies to inspection, sometimes multiple times per day. My friend who was at Tanguay said that many of the girls there have been abused or sexually assaulted before prison. Maybe most of them. So it is very, very hard for them to go through this all the time.” Her voice cracks. “And the worst part is that by law, the screws are entitled to do this. It is like sexual assault is illegal for everyone except if the government hires you to do it, and your victims are criminals.” Gabrielle stops talking and a single tear rolls down her cheek. Ilya’s heart clenches and he rests a hand on her shoulder.

“Not completely,” Jay chimes in. “It’s not completely legal for them. They’re not supposed to do it as a matter of routine, I heard. There's some decision from the Supreme Court.”

Shane’s eyes bug out. “Well then the fact that they still do it makes it worse.”

Gabrielle huffs. “Yes. Probably. Anyway, about clients in here,” she smirks, “I am always hanging out with two very buff men who are in prison for beating up a guy who tried to hurt a woman. I may have implied that I will send you two to defend my honor if anything happens.”

Ilya grins broadly. “Good. I am glad you are saying this. I would hurt someone who hurts you,” he assures.

“Me too,” Shane confirms.

Gabrielle offers them a watery smile. “Oh. Thank you.” She reaches for their hands and squeezes. “Even if it means going to the hole?”

Ilya squeezes back. “Yes.”

“Same,” Shane says. “Was it really bad when you went?”

“It was, even though I thought it was still a little bit worth it to call out that fucking asshole Bouchard. You stay in a cell for twenty-two to twenty-three hours per day. You only get to shower and have yard time, or to shower and watch TV. But at least if you go in for disciplinary reasons, they can only keep you there for up to seven days,” Gabrielle concludes.

Jay nods. “Yeah. The other types of solitary confinement are worse.”

“What? How can they make it even worse than that?” Ilya is genuinely baffled.

“It’s worse if they think you swallowed something that’s not allowed in here. Maybe a baggie of drugs or something. They’ll take you to a dry cell and you stay in there for twenty-four hours per day, up to three days. You don’t go anywhere, because they’re waiting you out until you take a shit.” Jay takes a breath before plowing on. “And that’s not even the worse one, cause at least it’s covered by the law so they can’t just do whatever. The worse is if they send you in there for ‘administrative’ reasons,” he makes air quotes, “usually if you’re suicidal or self-harming but also sometimes if you’re in danger from others. Then it’s not covered by the law and they can keep you in there for however long they want. You’re in a cell where the lights are never turned off, everything is bolted down, even the pillow is built into the bed and you don’t get sheets until they decide you won’t hang yourself with them. You’re wearing a hospital gown. You don’t get anything to distract you, not even a pencil or paper. The only thing you can do is yell at other people in the cells around you, to try and have a conversation. It’s just a really cruel way to treat people who aren’t doing well. I know this guy who is convinced that spending months in the hole is how he developed schizoid personality disorder.”

Ilya feels sick. Fuck, if I get as bad as mama, they could do this to me. Something must be happening on his face because Shane immediately chimes in.

“That’s fucking awful. Anyway, Ilya and I had plans to clean our cell so we should go now.” It’s quite obviously a lie; nonetheless, Ilya is unreasonably grateful for the out Shane provides.

They do not clean their cell, but Shane asks Ilya to fill out a memo requesting a medical appointment. “You could at least get anti-depressants prescribed,” he reasons.

Ilya winces. He thinks of his mother, dead from overdosing on pills. “I do not think this is good idea for me,” he admits.

“Okay, how about a memo so you’re added to the waitlist to see a social worker?” Shane’s liquid brown eyes are so open and compassionate, like he would love nothing more than for someone to help Ilya.

Ilya does not have the heart to refuse him.

April 2010

“That’s a foul!” Shane shouts after he misses the fastball Ilya just threw him. They’re playing catch and he doesn’t know jack shit about baseball, so it might not be a foul, but that’s fine since Ilya also doesn’t know anything about the sport.

“No ref no foul!” Ilya chants.

“Oh is that your game strategy? Is that how your team won the first time? I fucking knew you were a dirty player!” Shane taunts, then freezes. They’ve purposefully never disclosed they’re hockey players, in the hopes it would help preserve their careers. He looks over at Jay and Gabrielle, who are leaning against the fence in their group’s favorite corner of the yard. They’ve stopped talking to stare at Shane in confusion. “Oh. Um.” He’s really not sure how to recover.

Ilya scans him, seems to weigh the pros and cons, and reaches a decision. “Me and Shane are athletes.”

“Like… you play for your schools?” Jay tries.

“Uh… no.” Shane rubs the back of his neck in a nervous gesture.

“Ah, little more than that. We were first and second draft picks to top professional league in our sport. We should start this summer,” Ilya brags. “Well, were supposed to start this summer,” he amends.

“Wait, is this why you were both in Montréal? Something related to your sport?” Gabrielle asks.

Ilya points at her. “Clever girl.” He then points at Jay. “This guy has been trying to guess for months. All this university education and he cannot find answer. Does not know he is in the presence of generational talents.” Ilya grandiosely puffs out his chest.

Hoping to take him down a peg, Shane throws the ball at his stomach. Ilya lets out a surprised ‘oof’ and Shane cackles.

Jay scoffs. “Okay, we get it, you’re hotshots. Who’s better though?” Jay smirks. He knows exactly what he’s doing, having been privy to just how competitive the two of them are.

“The day we were arrested, my team won gold over his,” Shane says smugly. He doesn’t even care that he’s behaving obnoxiously.

“I won first time, and I was first draft pick,” Ilya counters, throwing the ball. Shane catches it.

“There’s no ‘I’ in team,” Shane argues, pitching it back. "And you were first because your playing style works better for the team that had first pick."

Gabrielle steps in then. “Okay, okay, we get it. You are both excellent. I do not know anything about sports, and I am not interested in learning, but I am happy for you two.”

“I don’t want to be forced to know things about sports either,” Jay states.

“Fine,” Ilya huffs. “As long as you know we are superior to everyone,” he adds haughtily. He throws another fastball at Shane, who is ready this time and whips it back even faster. They get lost in the game for a while.

“Since you are athletes who train for work, maybe you could stop giving everyone tips for free! Start having people pay for your knowledge,” Gabrielle eventually calls out. “Could give you something to do?”

Shane thinks of Ilya disclosing how useless he feels in here, how not being able to pay for anything makes it worse, and how he needs to stay busy to avoid spiraling. Shane decides then and there that they will be launching a joint business venture.

Chapter End Notes

*Safety check-in: how's everyone doing? I know this chapter and the previous one were pretty heavy.

Chapter 10: Public Relations I

Chapter Summary

News of Ilya and Shane’s case break containment.

Chapter Notes

CW for homophobic slur.

Établissement de détention de Montréal / prison de Bordeaux, April 2010

“Just like that. Yes. That’s perfect.”

Shane is surprised by how comically wide Ilya’s eyes get at that, then thinks back over the words that just came out of his mouth. Fuck. I’ve definitely moaned the exact same thing directly into Ilya’s ear. Shane blushes furiously, studiously ducking his head so he avoids catching Ilya’s gaze again. It’s not fast enough to miss how much Ilya’s shoulders shake as the latter tries to contain a probably obnoxious fit of giggles. Thankfully, Shane’s blunder went right over their client’s head.

About a week prior, Shane and Ilya set up their physical training side hustle, reaching out to guys they’d already helped out for free in the hopes they’d spread the word. Ilya even made a show of climbing onto one of the common area’s tables at dinner time, loudly (and boastfully) advertising their new business venture. The entire wing is locked in together for every meal, without so much as a guard in sight, while the surveillance cameras do not pick up on audio; therefore Shane and Ilya have decided not to worry about screws hearing about their illicit (albeit harmless) hustle. They’ve also agreed the guards would likely look the other way if they heard about this, so long as Shane and Ilya don’t trade their services for drugs, cellphones, DIY weapons like shivs, or other prohibited objects.

Since Ilya’s casual display of showmanship, business has slowly started trickling in. They are halfway through their allotted time with the third client of the day – Fred – who is currently squatting with the intent focus of someone trying not to drop his makeshift ‘kettlebell’ (a small lockbox crammed full of belongings). Shane is a little worried about the man’s grip and tries to calculate how sweaty Fred’s palms are, in light of the damp blotch coloring his t-shirt. Then Shane gets distracted by the perspiration-saturated patch, the shape of which reminds him of those inkblot tests used in psychology. He remembers having learned about them through a documentary on the history of the discipline, and wonders what it says about him that the shape only reminds him of anatomical images of the pelvis. Shane shakes his head a little bit to focus, stifling a yawn. He really needs to make sure he and Ilya start going to bed earlier, so they can remain professional in front of their clients.

Shane’s attention starts to wander again as they move through the session, and he’s happy that Ilya is there to take the lead. They are, after all, doing this so Ilya can stay busy enough to remain of sound mind. Shane thinks of the suggestions volleyed by Jay and Gabrielle before he and Ilya settled on physical training, and feels a pang of some twisty emotion. It’s only been a few days since Jay got released so Shane still grapples with a discomfiting mix of happiness for his friend, the edges of which are tinged with envy.

Shane reminds himself that Jay was very much due to get out of prison. Whereas the expectation is to obtain conditional release one-third of the way through one’s prison sentence, prisoners who are deemed the most recalcitrant and the least deserving have to wait until they’ve purged two-thirds, which is when they accede to statutory release. Jay has explained that for the remainder of his sentence, he will still be under the correctional system’s supervision. This means that if he breaks the conditions of his release or the rules at his halfway house, he may be reincarcerated, also known as ‘remonter’ (go back up) in prison slang. Since he was in for a drug trafficking charge, his conditions include not using nor getting anywhere near psychoactive substances. Jay finds this hilarious as he’s never tried nor been addicted to any of the product he’s moved. Shane fondly recalls Jay’s jokes that he’d have no trouble conforming to the rules, he’d be a model student at the halfway house and back sitting in university auditoriums in no time.

Although he and Ilya never did find out what was up with Jay’s notebook nor why the man was so stingy about his education, Shane misses his friend’s steadying presence. He and Ilya may never have trusted Jay fully, but they relied on the other man for information and for important context on everything happening in this godforsaken environment. Over the past four months, Jay wheedled his way in and became a cornerstone of Shane and Ilya’s day-to-day. It feels strange to think they will likely never speak again.

Shane blinks when Ilya’s tone shifts.

“Thank you, have nice day! Let us know if you want session again!” Ilya calls out as Fred walks off. He pockets the commissary items they obtained as payment and turns back to Shane. “Ready to go, solnyshko?” he asks more quietly.

Shane tenses. “Don’t say that out here,” he hisses, turning and walking away from the corner of the common area they were tucked into for the duration of the session.

“Why? Is not like anybody knows what it means. Including you,” Ilya mutters, walking faster to catch up.

“It’s not the word, it’s the tone. It sounds like what it is,” Shane grits out.

“Oh? And what is that?”

Shane stops abruptly and sighs. “An endearment.” He takes a peek at Ilya, who blushes a little bit and shrugs. Well, that confirms it. He starts walking again and Ilya matches his pace. “And there’s already those rumors going around, this isn’t helping.” Gabrielle told them she’d caught wind of whisperings according to which Shane and Ilya shared a bunk. It was true but it was nobody’s business, so they’d quietly asked Gabrielle to launch some sort of counter-rumor. She’d agreed, and now the general consensus was that guards had made up homosexual dynamics to sow discord within the wing. This mostly quelled talk as siding with the screws in any capacity meant taking on the risk of becoming a social pariah. But still, they could do with more caution; Shane isn’t sure what the Russia of it all would entail for Ilya should the rumors make it out of Bordeaux’s walls, but he knows for a fact that it would cause problems for their hockey careers. Well, if we still have hockey careers after this.

Ilya tenses and huffs in defeat. “I know. I just… I know. I will stop.”

Shane senses the shift in Ilya’s mood and switches to a low, hopefully-sultry tone. “In our cell, though, you can call me anything you want,” he murmurs.

Ilya’s eyes darken. His lips part to retort, but he’s interrupted by clamoring coming from the television area. Shane turns toward the loud voices.

“See! It is them, I fucking told you! How many Shane Hollanders and Ilya Rozanovs can there be?”

Shane freezes. Photos of he and Ilya take up half the television screen along with their full legal names. A news anchor fills the other half, while a banner scrolls quickly across the bottom:

MLH #1 & #2 DRAFT PICKS MISSING SINCE JANUARY

Shane’s ears ring and he does not hear a single thing the anchor says, until his and Ilya’s team roster pictures are replaced by a familiar face. Shane forces himself to tune back in.

“Mr. Pike, in your own words can you tell us what happened?”

Hayden Pike, who plays for the Drummondville Voltigeurs and was Shane’s linemate for the past two World Junior Championships, leans in toward the microphone. “Uh, yeah, so Team Canada won at World Juniors, and we all went to a bar. Well, not the minors, obviously,” Hayden rushes to clarify. “And Team Russia also joined, and at some point one of their guys was acting creepy. That’s when our captain, Shane Hollander, stepped in and tried to talk to him. And then somebody pushed me out of the way and I tripped a bit. By the time I could see what was happening again, the big Russian guy was on his knees with his nose bleeding, and Shane and Rozanov – that’s the captain of Team Russia – were just standing there. And then Shane took care of the girl for a while – he’s like that, you know, always really nice – and then I didn’t see him for a bit. And then the police showed up and took statements. And then they perp-walked Shane and Rozanov out of there.”

Pike pauses before forging on. “We haven’t heard anything about Shane since then. The team tried to find out where he and Rozanov were taken but the police wouldn’t say. And I reached out to the Kingston Frontenacs – that’s Shane’s team in the OHL – and nobody’s heard anything there either. The coaches just said Shane was taking a break from hockey, which if you knew anything about Shane you’d know that’s the biggest lie in the world. That guy lives for hockey, he wouldn’t willingly take a break unless he got injured real bad. It’s probably killing him to be missing play offs right now. So anyway we think he got arrested and he’s in the system somewhere, but we don’t know any more than that. Yeah. That’s about it.”

The interview concludes, and Shane’s mind reels as the anchor wraps up the segment. “CBC reached out to the MLH teams Shane Hollander and Ilya Rozanov were drafted to, respectively the Montreal Metros and the Boston Raiders. Both organizations declined to comment.”

Shane turns to Ilya, who stares blankly at the television. “Let’s go to our cell,” he mumbles, tugging at Ilya’s wrist.

One week later

Since the news broke, Ilya has done his best to avoid the television area. Unfortunately, it is completely pointless: the whole wing (and according to the rumors, the whole prison) seems intent on tuning in to every talk show or news segment about he and Shane. Some are apparently delighted to find out they’re cohabitating with micro-celebrities, other seem envious that he and Shane are set to become multimillionaires. It might not even happen anymore, Ilya thinks glumly.

Although he and Shane’s status remains unconfirmed to the general public, the widely-held belief seems to be that they are incarcerated. This is also what Yuna Hollander and Farah Jalali – he and Shane’s agent – have said. Ilya worries about what this means for their careers: the whole world finding out they’ve been in prison might make their teams drop them before they even sign their rookie contracts. Even though Farah says some teams have kept players on after they were found guilty of crimes, Ilya would argue that it’s different for he and Shane. In past examples, the players’ value to their teams was well-established, while Shane and Ilya are unknown variables as well as felons (not yet since they haven’t gone to trial, but Ilya is fairly sure they’ll be found guilty). It would probably look really bad to sign them.

Farah claims she'll make the best out of whatever situation they find themselves in, but it hasn’t stopped Ilya from worrying. Losing the MLH would mean going back to Russia. He’d still probably be allowed to play for his junior team (MHC Dynamo Moscow) until he turns 20, and he could enter the KHL Junior Draft. But then he’d remain within his father’s and his brother’s reach. He would have to keep playing the part of the good son, the good brother, and potentially of the family cash cow. He likely would not be paid as well in the KHL as he would have been as an MLH rookie, but Ilya knows his brother; Alexei would never pass up an opportunity to demand funds to support his gambling and cocaine habits. Ilya thinks that if he had to stay in Russia indefinitely, he would suffocate until his sense of self collapsed. Or maybe without Shane, he’d waste away until he became a shadow of himself. As good as dead either way, Ilya thinks grimly.

Ilya can’t help but think that once he gets out of prison, all of his options will be terrible. With a criminal conviction, he’d likely no longer be welcome in Canada;  no more hockey and no more Shane. Shane would also probably struggle to gain entry to other countries due to his record, so they’d be kept apart by borders. Even if the lawyers work their magic to get around that, the MLH might not want him anymore. So no more Shane then either. If the Raiders keep Ilya on, and if the Metros keep Shane, they’ll still be able to see each other but only a handful of times per season. After having 24/7 access to Shane for months, Ilya doesn’t think he would handle the distance very well. Fucking hell.

Ilya does have more immediate concerns than the bleakness of his career prospects and of his future proximity with Shane. The media’s interest in the both of them seems nowhere near dying down, while the situation in the wing has gotten slightly out of hand. The frenzy has reached a point where those who pay for newspaper or trashy magazine subscriptions have started an entire underground economy for clippings alluding to the ‘case of the missing star hockey players’. Ilya has caught glimpses of some titles entirely against his will:

Shane Hollander and Ilya Rozanov Bar Brawl: Heroes or Criminals?

Young Hockey Star Case: Lawyers Weigh In

MLH Commissioner Refuses to Comment on Rozanov-Hollander Case

The Normalization of Violence in Hockey Culture, or Why the Hollander-Rozanov Case is Unsurprising

‘Fighting Should be Unacceptable Everywhere’: Advocates Pressure Hockey Leagues to Ban On-Ice Fights and Implement Anger Management Training, Hope to Prevent Off-Ice Fights

There is a silver lining. The interest in he and Shane’s case is invasive and annoying, but at least their newfound popularity has helped their physical training business take off. There is so much interest that they have decided to capitalize on the moment and to split up so they can take separate clients at the same time. Now that he’s wrapped up his first session of the day, Ilya crosses the common area to go meet Shane. His client was only thirty minutes while Shane’s is for a full hour, so Ilya will get to sit and ogle Shane’s perfect ass. The thought of his whatever-they-are-to-each-other’s flushed cheeks – peppered with dark freckles as they are – temporarily settles Ilya’s unease over their future.

That is when Ilya notices something is off. He’s walked past three tables in a row, and all three of them fell silent as soon as he got within hearing range. When it happens a fourth time, Ilya stops in his tracks and glares. “What?” he snaps. “You found out I have fucked all your mothers and I am your new step-papa?” Not his best work, but effective in a pinch.

Some of the guys gathered around the table seem sheepish, like they’ve been caught in the middle of talking behind his back. Fuck, they probably have.

Others stare at Ilya with uninhibited disgust. Hostility radiates off them in waves, and Ilya is almost afraid to ask. Almost. “Well?” he asks impatiently.

Nobody answers, but Ilya notices Fred shifting guiltily and trying to tuck a newspaper clipping inside his sleeve. Lightning-quick, Ilya grabs Fred’s wrist and tugs the evidence out.

“Hey, I paid good money for that, give it back!” Fred complains.

Ilya skims over the clipping. It’s the title page of something called the Journal de Montréal. He and Shane’s names appear in bold letters, but beyond that Ilya has no idea what it says. Fucking French. Fred tries to reach for the clipping and Ilya swats his hand away, growling.

Ilya quickly shoves the piece of paper inside his boxers and Fred freezes, staring at Ilya’s crotch. “What, you do not want to touch my dick to get stupid paper back?”

“No he doesn’t want to touch your faggot dick,” some other guy spits out.

Ilya wishes homophobia wasn’t so normalized in prison but he’s got bigger fish to fry right now, such as finding out what the fuck the newspaper is saying. Still, Ilya is Ilya and he cannot help but sneer and taunt as he backs away. “Too bad for him!” Ilya catches the homophobe glowering as he turns and power walks the rest of the way through the common area.

Ilya marches up to Shane from behind. The Canadian is still mid-session, so Ilya throws their client a terse smile he hopes will come across as polite. “Excuse us for one moment,” he says, guiding a startled Shane a few paces away. He whips the clipping out and unceremoniously shoves it into Shane’s hands. “What does this say,” he whispers brusquely.

Shane blinks, then looks down at the now-warm and slightly crumpled piece of paper. Ilya’s heart hammers in his chest.

Then Shane inhales sharply and all the color drains from his face. Ilya’s hands go numb.

Shane looks up, wide eyes meeting Ilya’s own. He exhales shakily and visibly braces himself before speaking. “Steve gave an interview,” he says in a preternaturally level tone.

Ilya may have grown up in Russia, but nothing has ever made him feel quite as cold as those four simple words.

Chapter End Notes

Yes I'm leaving you all on a cliffhanger for the next week-ish, I regret nothing💃🏻

For my fellow people with memory issues, Steve was their cell neighbor who said this in chapter 8:

“Mind your goddamn business, fucking fags,” Steve growls and spits on the ground. “Don’t think I don’t hear you fucking every night.”

Chapter 11: Public Relations II

Chapter Summary

Shane and Ilya’s relationship is made public, creating a mess of cultural, legal, and public relations ramifications.

Chapter Notes

EDIT 20/8/2026: The legal inaccuracies have been fixed, 1000 thanks to defreule for helping out!! Also made the last newspaper article sound more realistic.

CW for homophobic repression and discrimination, violence, and slurs. Also CW for Grigori and Alexei.

Établissement de détention de Montréal / prison de Bordeaux, the same day

Ilya swallows and wills himself to speak through the knot in his throat. “How… how bad is it?” he whispers. His tongue feels too big for his mouth and he’s surprised the words don’t come out any more garbled than they do.

Shane presses his lips into a thin line. “Bad.” Shane leaves Ilya standing there helplessly, walking back to the client. He says something about needing to cut their time short due to a legal emergency. Shane adds that the session will be on the house as an apology for the inconvenience. Then he returns and wordlessly collects Ilya, who follows in a state of barely contained panic.

As soon as they are back in their cell, Shane starts tapping his index and his thumb together so fast that Ilya looks away to avoid getting dizzy. “Steve told the press we’re in here, and we’re cellmates, and that he’s heard us fucking,” Shane blurts.

Ilya blinks. He could not possibly have heard that correctly. “He said fucking? To media?”

“Well no, I don’t know what he said exactly, but the journalist paraphrased it as us having an ‘intimate relationship’ so. It was probably something more inappropriate, otherwise they would have used a direct quote.” Shane lets out a single nervous giggle, a distorted echo filling the space and setting Ilya even more on edge.

Ilya slumps onto the bottom bunk. It sinks in like a ton of bricks: the wording is irrelevant when the message itself is the crux of the problem. Not because he doesn’t have an ‘intimate relationship’ with Shane – he does. Not because he’s ashamed of his sexuality or of loving Shane – he isn’t. Ilya’s entire being is gripped by fear because their relationship has escaped the safety of their little gay bubble, exposing them to the vultures and to the predators: the media, the MLH, Russia, and his family.

I am so completely fucked.

“Ilya?”

Ilya shakes himself out of his stupor, finding Shane kneeling beside the bed. On any other day, he would make some lewd comment about it. But even if he had it in him, the worry currently twisting Shane’s features would be enough for Ilya to bite back his joke. “Shane,” Ilya answers tremulously, reaching for his lover’s hand.

Shane tangles their fingers together. “How bad is this for you? For Russia,” Shane asks quietly, like an excessively loud noise could place Ilya at risk of shattering. Maybe it would.

Ilya swallows as an avalanche of vivid memories invade his awareness.

April 2006. Ilya freezes in the living room’s doorway. The TV show host discusses gay journalist Ilya Zimin, who was recently beaten to death. The host comments on reports coming out of Moldova, according to which the alleged murderer is lauded as a national hero and a martyr. Ilya’s father turns to Polina and says a Russian should have taken matters into his own hands long ago. Completely overtaken by disgust, Ilya runs to the toilet. He sits on the floor for twenty minutes, waiting for the dry heaves to pass. He skips dinner, pretending he has indigestion, but in reality he just cannot stomach the thought of sharing space with his father.

May 2006, two weeks before Ilya’s fifteenth birthday. Alexei, who has come home for Sunday dinner, is dramatically reenacting yesterday’s events to much amusement on Grigori’s part. As a recently appointed member of OMON, a paramilitary special police force, Alexei was one of the thousand officers involved in riot control for Moscow’s first ever Pride March. For each of the forty or so queer activists who showed up, there were about ten neo-Nazis and religious counter-protestors, along with twenty-five policemen. Alexei gleefully shares some of the counter-protestors’ chants and signs: ‘Put the Pederasts on the Iron’, ‘No Sodomy in Moscow’, ‘No Faggots in Russia’. Ilya feels nauseated when Alexei gets to his favorite part: when neo-Nazis helped police block queer activists’ exit. Alexei happily reports that ‘the faggots’ were attacked and injured, and that many were arrested; there is also no plan to prosecute their attackers. Gripped by fear, Ilya forces himself to stop thinking about his coach’s son Sasha, who he’s been making eyes at over the course of the past hockey season. Ilya does not rush to the bathroom this time: he sits in silence, tuning out the rest of the run-down, hoping he’s nodding and smiling in the right places.

Months later, Ilya learns that the Moscow mayor referred to Pride as satanic. It doesn’t stop him from having his first sexual encounter with Sasha. But after that, he starts paying attention, feigning a newfound interest in politics so his father and brother won’t suspect he only cares about current events so long as he can infer just how much trouble he could get in for liking men. The more he learns, the worse he feels, but he cannot make himself look away. He also stops entertaining the possibility of a repeat experience with Sasha. He can wait until hockey takes him to America before exploring that side of himself again.

June 2007. Sasha covertly warns Ilya to stay away from Ilyinskiye Vorota square. There are nationalists and religious people patrolling the park as they suspect it to be a gay meeting place. Ilya complies, then laughs a few weeks later when he learns that some of these extremists were caught at their own game and beaten up. Alexei asks what’s so funny; Ilya recounts some prank a teammate pulled.

May 2009. The story with Moscow Pride is the same as it is every year: it gets banned, then severely repressed by police, even when it is staged to coincide with the Eurovision finale. In the fall, some UN committee reports its concern over the violence, discrimination, and hate speech faced by LGBT Russians, which is perpetrated by authority figures, the media, as well as average people. Ilya snorts, wondering how the hell a piece of paper coming out of another country is supposed to change anything.

Still, Ilya clings to a handful of positive news through the years. In 2007, Moscow police disperse anti-gay counter-protestors outside the Iranian embassy. The following year, the gay blood ban is lifted and an LGBT advocacy group is officially registered with the government; it’s the first time this happens without court intervention. And just before the start of World Juniors last December, the head of the Russian Orthodox church condemned discrimination against LGBT people. (Patriarch Kirill still said homosexuality was a sin, but Ilya accepts the crumb of optimism these news spark in him.)

Ilya returns to the present. Even if the government, the church, and the general public become more accepting, he still has profoundly homophobic and extremely well-connected family members. Hope cannot protect him from violence, when a loved one is so likely to cause harm before the state even reaches him.

Ilya exhales slowly when Shane squeezes his thigh. “Not good. Probably bad.” Ilya has no words to communicate the vastness of his fear, nor could he unravel the complexity and the ambiguity of the situation in his second language.

Shane climbs onto Ilya’s lap and kisses him softly. Ilya tugs Shane closer, until they both feel each other’s frantic heartbeats. They cling to each other for a few minutes, and tears roll down Ilya’s cheeks. Shane only holds on tighter.

Eventually, Shane pulls back. “We should discuss what we’re comfortable revealing to the public. And then we should call my mom.”

Ilya nods.

“How much of it is true?”

Shane is barely keeping it together, trying to remain present for Ilya as they navigate a situation that not only inconveniences him, but exposes the man he loves to potentially catastrophic risk. Shane can’t be sure, but he suspects that Ilya saying things are ‘probably bad’ is a massive understatement. He grits his teeth and does his best to contain his frustration as he answers his mother. “Does it matter? It’s out there now, and if Russian media picks it up, it’ll put Ilya in danger when he goes home.”

Yuna sighs and her tone softens over the tinny payphone speaker. “You’re right, honey. I just want to make sure you know that your dad and I love you no matter what. And that if Ilya’s your boyfriend, we’re happy for you.”

The receiver is jammed between Shane’s right and Ilya’s left ears and they’re huddled so close together that Shane notices when Ilya stops breathing. Shane doesn’t look but he leans further into Ilya’s shoulder. Screw the guys who are staring daggers at them right now. Also, Gabrielle is standing guard near them, arms crossed and features twisted into a fierce snarl, so they’re probably fine. Still, the last thing Shane wants is to get jumped so he’s not about to come out while standing in a space shared with a volatile population. “Mom, this really isn’t the time or place. Can you put Farah and the lawyers on the call?” Shane is well aware that not denying anything is as good as telling his mother that he and Ilya are together, and that he just implicitly came out. Normally he would lose his shit, but his parents finding out he’s gay is quite literally the least of his concerns at the moment.

Once everyone has joined the call and has been briefed on the situation, Maître Grenier is the first to speak up. “Ilya, if you agree I would recommend filing for asylum immediately. As we’ve discussed, if you are found guilty of a crime in Canada it is likely that you would get sent back to Russia and refused entry back here. This would be unsafe for you given the current circumstances, so we do need to file right now. This would also have the benefit of preventing attempts to deport you while your claim is under review, which could take a long time.”

“What would this mean for me?” Ilya asks cautiously. “And for Russia.”

“We would make the case that you have a well-founded fear of persecution on the basis of belonging to the LGBT community. Now I’m not asking you to disclose your sexuality to me unless you want to, and I’ll need to look into this further to confirm, but being perceived as an LGBT public figure would likely be sufficient given the Russian sociopolitical context. Especially once English-language and sport media catch on, it will become a much bigger scandal and spread far beyond Québec.” A rustle of papers comes through the line. “As for your other question, while your case is under review you would not be able to leave Canada until you are granted refugee status. Even after that, it would not be advisable to return to Russia as that would suggest you no longer fear persecution and no longer need refugee status. It could also undermine your application for permanent residency here in Canada, which is also something you should consider.”

Shane feels a tension headache coming on from the overload of legal information and presses into his eyelids with his palms. Then he looks up at Ilya, who is still silent and seems torn. Shane squeezes Ilya’s forearm in support, hoping the pressure will be grounding, and Ilya offers him a sad half-smile that tears at his soul. He can’t imagine how terrible it must feel to lose one’s home over this. “Um, if he does this, won’t it be interpreted like confirmation? Of what people have been saying,” Shane mutters, hoping nobody is close enough to overhear.

“Ah, no, information about this case would remain private within the asylum system.”

Ilya remains silent for a long moment. “Okey. Do it. Asylum, and permanent residency too.” He pauses for a beat, searching Shane’s gaze. Shane nods, knowing that Ilya is asking for permission to confirm the rumor. Ilya draws himself up to his full height and steels himself before speaking. “And say is all true,” he whispers.

Shane tenses when he hears a sharp inhale coming through the phone line, recognizing his mother. He relaxes slightly when Ilya grazes a thumb over his knuckles and when Maître Grenier takes the revelation in stride. “All right, thank you Ilya. My team and I will get right on this.”

Ilya looks completely checked out, so Shane steps in. “And on the criminal law front? Does this change anything?”

Maître Proulx, the criminal defense attorney, clears her throat and chimes in. “It’s still the same plan, to work on identifying holes in the evidence the prosecution submitted. Should one or both of you be found guilty, we will apply for a record suspension by arguing that a record would inhibit your social reintegration as it would prevent you from flying in and out of the country, thereby making it impossible for you to pursue your careers in the MLH. We would show how very sorry you are for what you did, that you understand it was wrong, and that you’re ready to undergo anger management and de-escalation training. It’s not an instantaneous process, and I can’t promise it would work, but my team and I would do everything in our power to get you pardoned.”

Shane nods, then remembers nobody but Ilya can see him. “Okay. Okay. Ilya, do you have any questions?”

Ilya blinks a few times then frowns, taking a moment before replying. “Ah, no.”

Okay, Ilya’s definitely not fine. It’s like the police station and court all over again. Shane remembers how quiet and seemingly absent Ilya was. Looking back, something was absolutely wrong; Ilya is usually so vivacious. Now, Shane concludes that Ilya is barely keeping himself afloat. “Okay. So. The media?”

Shane explains what he and Ilya are comfortable sharing with the public, then they hang up so their calling card doesn’t run out of minutes while the lawyers brief Farah on what she can and cannot say. They call Farah back fifteen minutes later.

“All right boys, how about this as a joint statement?” Farah asks. “Last week, we were made aware of concerns regarding our alleged disappearance on January 8. We would like to assure everyone that we have not disappeared. We were arrested on the night in question and have since been held in pre-trial detention. Furthermore, we would like to confirm that we have indeed resolved our differences over this period; behind bars, friendship is more important than rivalries that may exist on ice. Lastly, we urge our teammates and the public to respect the judicial process, as well as ours and our families’ privacy.”

Shane is saddened by the need to downplay how important Ilya is to him. But Ilya’s safety is paramount and Shane would do anything to protect it, even if that requires lying by omission. Maybe one day we can tell the truth. Shane chokes the thought off and forces himself to answer. “Fine by me.”

The next day

Shane’s stomach drops when Gabrielle runs up to their cell, knocking frantically against the doorframe and waving a newspaper clipping.

“You need to see this!” she exclaims, out of breath.

What in the everlasting fuck is it now. Shane is too worried to spare a moment to interpret Gabrielle’s demeanor; he snatches the piece of paper and tilts it so Ilya can read over his shoulder.

Friend of Hollander and Rozanov Dismisses Claim of Intimate Relationship

Jérémie Larivière, former inmate at the Établissement de détention de Montréal and master’s student at the Université de Montréal, weighs in on hockey prodigies Shane Hollander and Ilya Rozanov’s alleged intimacy behind bars.

“Shane and Ilya are my friends and as a gay man myself, I can confirm that the rumor is [unfounded],” Larivière argued. He went on to explain that although heterosexual men can be uncomfortable with physical contact, this is not the case within hockey culture: “Players are affectionate and dogpile each other all the time!”

Larivière further revealed that rumors abound in prison due to the lack of available activities. “While I was in there, there was a rumor that I hadn’t showered in two months, can you believe that? I’m just a sweaty person!” He shared his hypothesis that the man who initially claimed Shane Hollander and Ilya Rozanov were intimately entangled did so due to ulterior motives: “Steve is a known rat who just wanted his claim to fame. Now he’ll go down in history as some ignorant [individual] who made up a gay relationship so he could ride on two up-and-coming athletes’ coattails.”

Shane finishes and stares at Ilya’s profile in disbelief. Ilya is still working his way through the English words, but his features morph into a grin that only broadens as he reads through Jay’s words. Then Ilya guffaws and looks up, eyes flitting from Shane to Gabrielle and back. “This fucking guy! Never in life has he watched hockey, how the fuck does he know about dogpiling?”

“This says he is a master’s student. I would assume he knows how to Google,” Gabrielle retorts. Her tone is teasing, but her wobbly chin and suspiciously shiny eyes betray her.

Ilya’s smile softens. “He must have Googled Russia too,” he says quietly. His voice sounds strained, and Shane catches the shift in his mood immediately. Shane tugs Ilya into a bear hug and they hold on to each other for a minute before Ilya speaks again, voice muffled by Shane’s sweatshirt. “I cannot believe he told world about showering thing! You know I started this rumor? Now I will have to apologize next time I see him!”

“Serves him right, he still did not shower often enough!” Gabrielle titters.

Shane bursts into laughter and the three of them cackle for an ungodly amount of time.

Everything’s going to be fine. Ilya is going to be fine. The panicky buzzing that threatened to consume Shane over the past twenty-four hours finally starts to recede.

Chapter End Notes

*Every event described in Ilya's memories is based on things that happened. I relied on eyewitness testimonies, media accounts, and reports.

*I am fairly sure this legal stuff would work even if Ilya is found guilty (unless what he did is considered a serious crime, in which case he wouldn't be eligible to claim asylum).

*If you’re Russian and you were old enough to remember what was up, can you comment on how much access there was to news coming out of North America in the late 00s/early 10s (through media or social media)? I know that in recent years there have been crackdowns but can’t find enough info to get a sense of the vibe back then! How likely is it that there would be a delay between the news of Shane+Ilya getting out in French, then getting picked up by Anglo-Canadian media, then Russian?

*Next chapter will be much easier on the soul, I promise!

Chapter 12: Choices

Chapter Summary

Shane and Ilya handle the emotional aftermath of the media storm. They figure out what they mean to each other (somewhat).

Chapter Notes

The previous chapter has been updated, starting at the legal stuff! Thank you defreule for telling me that Ilya is actually eligible for asylum and sending me all the info!! Tldr Ilya’s case is looking much less dire now, at least on the Russia front! (They’ve still just been outed as maybe-criminals and maybe-queer, and the world of hockey is bound to notice.)

Établissement de détention de Montréal / prison de Bordeaux, April 2010

“Are you ready to talk about it?” Shane asks into Ilya’s hair.

Ilya tenses. “Talk about what?” he mumbles, thumbing at Shane’s nipple in the hopes this will provide adequate distraction. He knows what Shane is asking, of course, but really doesn’t want to discuss it. Why can’t he just press his soul into Shane’s skin and pretend everything is fine?

Shane, unfortunately, knows all of Ilya’s tricks by now and does not let him deflect. “You know what, Ilya. About getting outed,” Shane clarifies, grabbing Ilya’s wrist to prevent him from further attempts at diversion.

Ilya sighs petulantly. “What is there to talk about? Is done. Jay tried to fix, but toothpaste is still out of the tube. Cannot put it back in.”

“It’s a little bit back in,” Shane counters. “We told the world we’re just friends. But we’re not just friends, are we?” Shane says it like he’s bracing for contradiction.

“No. We are not just friends,” Ilya agrees quietly.

“What are we, then?”

Ilya can’t decipher Shane’s tone, and he doesn’t look as he answers. “Lovers?” His voice quivers a little bit and Ilya kind of hates how uncertain he sound. He buries his face in the space between Shane’s pecs and prays to the gay gods that Shane can’t feel how warm Ilya’s cheeks have gotten.

“Ilya, ew no, not lovers!”

The words stab right into Ilya’s softest parts and he rapidly blinks away the moisture that inconveniently tries to make its way out of his eyeballs. Fuck, I cannot take this rejection right now. He swallows and tries to sound casual. “Ah. What would you say, then?”

“Well, I can’t introduce you to my parents as my lover, they do not need to know we have sex.” Ilya stills – what does this even mean? – and Shane hums to himself for a moment. “But boyfriend is a nice, parent-friendly word.”

Ilya’s head whips up and he stares down at Shane, heart hammering wildly. Did I hear this right? “B-boyfriend?” His accent sounds thicker than usual.

Shane offers him a shy smile, and Ilya thinks it’s the most beautiful thing in the world. “Yeah, boyfriend. Is that all right?” Ilya is at a loss for words, and all he can do is to fiercely claim Shane’s mouth. Shane kisses him back, matching Ilya’s desperation beat for beat, before gently pushing Ilya so a few inches of space separate their glistening lips. “Can I take that as a yes?”

Ilya nods fervently. “Yes. I… I want to be your boyfriend.” In truth, he wants everything from Shane and will take anything that is willingly offered. Ilya’s heart soars and he offers Shane a dazzling smile, which falters when he remembers something else that was said. “You want to tell parents about us?”

“Well, you kind of already told them,” Shane answers in his most pragmatic tone.

Ilya tries to cover his wince by looking away. “Sorry.”

Shane frowns and grabs Ilya’s chin, forcing their eyes to meet. “Hey. Don’t be. I wasn’t ready to come out, that’s true. I’m not even sure what I would come out as. But Steve is the one who took that choice away from me, not you. You asked me before telling our team, and that matters.”

“You still were not ready,” Ilya argues. He feels guilty for forcing a decision upon Shane when both of them were already robbed of the choice to come out on their own terms. The blow against Shane's autonomy, in a sea of other denials of autonomy enforced by their environment, has been weighing heavy on Ilya’s shoulders.

“Maybe, but I got to choose. And I chose honesty, because I hate lying about how much you mean to me.” Shane gathers his thoughts for a beat and Ilya waits with bated breath. “I understand that we have to lie to the world for your safety and our careers. So I agreed with the statement that said we’re friends. I just… I don’t want to do that with my parents. I also didn’t want you to lie to the lawyer, and for her to submit an asylum claim that implied you don’t actually like men. I don’t think that would be smart.”

Ilya searches Shane’s face. “You really care this much?” About me goes unsaid, but Ilya thinks Shane heard it anyway.

Shane huffs impatiently. “Ilya, if there weren’t cameras at the bar and who knows how many witnesses, I would have tried to take the fall for the entire thing the second the immigration lawyer said you were at risk.”

“Why?”

“Parce que t’es mon chaton, j’vais toujours m’occuper de toi.”

“What does this mean?”

“It means learn French, asshole.” Shane grins like the brat he is, and Ilya playfully growls before pinching him in retaliation.

They tussle for a moment until Ilya sobers. “I would not have wanted you to do this.” I am not worth it, a nasty voice screams in the back of his mind. It sounds suspiciously like Grigori Rozanov.

Shane shrugs. “Too bad.” He seems too cavalier and it nags at Ilya.

“Solnyshko, why? Be honest.”

Shane freezes, blinking slowly. “Fine. I’ll be honest. But then you have to be honest about something too.”

Ilya doesn’t like these terms, but he accepts.

Shane plays with the cross on Ilya’s necklace, pulling it back and forth across the taut chain. “I’m worried I fucked your life up.”

Ilya stills. “Dorogoy no, why would you even think this?” You are the best thing in my life.

Shane looks away, staring intently at the wall across from their bunk as if he hasn’t had its details memorized for months. “You’re in here because you stepped in after I punched your teammate.” Although Shane starts slowly, the words pour out of him faster and faster. “You’re in danger from your country and have to claim fucking refugee status because Steve heard us having sex, and we both know I’m the louder one. The whole reason anybody knows about us being in here in the first place is because of my teammate, who couldn’t keep his mouth shut and decided to go to the media. And now… you can’t even go home because of me.” Shane lets out a pained noise.

It’s Ilya’s turn to tug at Shane’s chin to force his gaze back. “Moya lyubov’, no, none of this is your fault. Is like you said, I made decisions. I chose to punch Makarov. If anything I tricked you into forgetting your stupid rule about sex, by putting show on for you. I have not done anything with you I did not want to do. And you have no control over what idiots Pike and Steve did. Is not your fault home is homophobic country. Okey?”

Shane’s frown softens. “Okay,” he whispers. “Promise?”

Ilya kisses him gently, thumb drifting along the line of Shane’s jaw. “Promise.”

Shane nods resolutely. “Okay. So. My turn. How are you feeling about home?”

Ilya flops back down onto Shane’s chest. The truth is he feels conflicted about what getting outed means for him. Jay’s statement will not matter one whit to his father and brother. What matters is that a part of the world now thinks that Ilya fucks men, and that this is shameful. Dishonorable. A blemish on the family name. A betrayal of traditional values. A poor reflection on their own heterosexuality and, by extension, on their masculinity: if there is already one faggot in the family tree, who is to say there are not more? Who else has been tainted by such despicable desires?

Getting outed means exposing himself to his family’s hatred. Finally, they can stop pretending they view him as anything more than a future source of revenue, once his hockey career takes off. It should be a relief, but at the same time Ilya has always craved the possibility of being seen and cherished for who he is, which he lost the moment his mother passed. And now he’s lost the possibility of proximity to his mother’s final resting place. He’s also lost access to everything she once owned (barring her necklace), along with everything he didn’t carry to Canada in a duffel bag. Memorabilia, childhood hockey trophies… It shouldn’t matter; maybe it wouldn’t have mattered if Ilya had chosen to leave those behind. But he didn’t.

And now Ilya will never see his niece grow up. He’ll never again greet his neighbor’s dog Laika. He will no longer exist in a place where he is enveloped by his mother tongue and by the smells of his childhood. No more favorite bakery, favorite park for running, favorite club to dance the night away in.

Ilya is stuck grieving what he had and lost as well as what he never had in the first place.

“A lot,” Ilya finally answers. “I feel a lot. Bad and good.”

Shane tightens his arms around Ilya and holds him close.

The following week

“What do you want for your birthday?” Ilya asks idly. He’s unceremoniously using the toilet as a seat while Shane has the desk chair. They huddle next to the oepn cell door, chatting with Gabrielle who sits on the floor just outside. She is meticulously folding a piece of paper into an origami masterpiece.

The three of them have been spending the better part of their days like this, ever since Steve outed Shane and Ilya. Although Jay’s statement smoothed some feathers, the majority of the wing seems to believe Steve, especially in light of the rumors that had circulated about them sharing a bed. Although Gabrielle masterfully quelled those at the time, it seems that her counter-rumor has ceased being effective. Once an alleged cocksucker, always a cocksucker, Shane thinks. His world has shrunk to the confines of cell E-2 as they self-isolate for safety’s sake: the climate in the wing has turned hostile, whether that’s due to homophobia or envy over their status as almost-hockey-celebrities, Shane doesn’t know. Either way, he feels more secure within this stifling square-footage than he does out in the common areas.

“For my birthday I want everybody to stop having opinions about who I’m dating. The guys in the wing, the media, the league, and all of Russia. I just want people to leave us alone. Also, I want all three of us to be released from this shithole.”

Gabrielle looks up from her creasing. “Not sure your unemployed boyfriend can afford to get you all of that,” she offers wryly.

Ilya scoffs and clutches his chest in mock offense. “How dare you! Is not my fault guys want to be homophobic more than have personal trainer! Solnyshko, defend my honor!”

Shane smiles. The word boyfriend is still fresh enough to warm his soul. “I want to know everything you’ve been calling me in Russian. Can you afford that?” he teases.

Ilya cocks his head. “Mm, I could tell you but would be more fun to show you.”

Shane frowns. “What, like you’ll find a Russian-English dictionary?”

“I will tattoo you with meaning.”

Shane’s eyebrows unclench and fly up in surprise. “You’ll tattoo me? How?”

Ilya looks over at Gabrielle. “Can you help me trade for supplies? We still have a lot from training people.”

“For a cut, sure.”

Ilya rolls his eyes. “No cut and is also your gift to Shane.”

Gabrielle smirks. “Fine, but I want to be there for the reveal.”

“Deal.” Ilya meets Shane’s gaze again. “See? Simple as this. Do you want?”

Shane worries at his lips. “What’re you gonna do for needles? I don’t want a second-hand needle from somebody’s medical treatment that was then passed down to some addict.”

“I will get you a new sewing kit, unopened. A bit of bleach from someone who works at the laundry. Also baby oil. You guys got something that’s 100% cotton that you can cut a bit off of? Otherwise I’ll get you cotton balls.”

“We can find something,” Ilya readily offers.

“How about a metal tin, an empty aluminum can, a pencil, stuff to make a lighter, paper towels?”

“We are good for this too,” Ilya confirms, having obtained Jay's lighter supplies when the other man was released. “Is this everything?”

“Yes!”

“Good. So, Shane?” Ilya looks at him expectantly.

Shane sighs. “I don’t know, mon chou. I have no idea how prison tattoos work but this doesn’t sound very sanitary at all.”

“Again with the shoo,” Ilya faux-complains. “How about this. If I tattoo you to show you meaning of Russian words, you tattoo me with meaning of French words. Deal?”

Shane knows he’s getting goaded into this over some weird competitive instinct, but he does not mind at all. “Fine. Deal.”

Ilya whoops, and Shane really hopes his boyfriend is halfway decent at drawing.

May 10, 2010

“You still want?”

“Yes. I choose this.” I choose you.

“Okey then. Do not move,” Ilya warns.

“I won’t!” Shane argues. Then Ilya pokes him with the makeshift tattoo instrument and he jolts. “Warn me next time, asshole,” he hisses.

“If I warn you, you will become tense and will hurt more,” Ilya counters. “Just lie down and breathe, kotenok.”

Shane grumbles but complies. He’s on the bunk, lying on his stomach, while Ilya sits in the chair and tattoos the back of his left calf. Their supplies are laid out on the desk and seem sketchy at best, or like horrendous health hazards at worse. Under Gabrielle’s guidance – she’s standing outside the cell door – Ilya first set cotton on fire in the metal tin. He then scraped the ashes, mixed them with baby oil, and transferred the ‘ink’ into a clean toothpaste cap. As for the tattoo instrument, it involved a sewing needle, blunt tip stabbed into a pencil’s eraser. The needle was sterilized with bleach and fire, then carefully wrapped with thread to create a reservoir for the ink. Once everything was ready, Ilya shaved a section of Shane’s leg and cleaned it thoroughly, then washed his own hands one last time.

Despite his initial complaints, Shane soon falls into a trance. The rhythmic stabbing is gentler than expected and soothing in a way – like there’s a direction in which to throw the buzzing that constantly courses under his skin. Shane doesn’t need to think anymore, he can just exist in his body and let the sensations wash over him. The sensory experience is almost sensual, not because it is erotic, but because it is Ilya’s work. Ilya who carefully applies baby oil, stretches Shane’s skin, dutifully presses the needle in – not too deep, never too deep –, and periodically wipes the blood and plasma and oil and excess ink away. Ilya who marks Shane’s skin with art representing endearments he murmurs into Shane’s ears; words that act as stand-ins for the tender feelings they have not yet had the courage to express more directly.

Shane is pulled from his meditative state after what could have been an hour or five. He blinks as Ilya speaks softly. “All right, solnyshko, I will clean and bandage, then you can sit up. No peeking.” Ilya presses a kiss into Shane’s temple before finishing.

Soon enough, their positions are reversed. Ilya lies on his back on the bed, sweatpants and boxers pulled low to expose his Adonis belt, while Shane’s spine curls over his boyfriend’s prostrate form. Shane works methodically, hyper focused on reproducing the unfamiliar shapes he scribbled on the back of a memo. Does this even look like…? He’s not sure, but he also knows it doesn’t really matter. He doubts Ilya will display impressive artistic skills, and the intention is moreso to inscribe a piece of himself into his boyfriend’s skin anyway.

Shane finishes the first piece and has Ilya close his eyes and reposition himself so his head is at the foot of the bed. Shane then gets to work on the other side of Ilya’s Adonis belt.

Finally he’s done and he fetches Gabrielle as Ilya stretches languidly.

“It’s my birthday, so I want the first reveal,” Shane says once they're all standing in the cell’s doorway.

“Of course, solnyshko.” Ilya kneels and loosens part of the bandage. “This is your first one, actually. Solnyshko.” Ilya pulls and lifts Shane’s ankle so he can see the back of his own leg. Shane sees a crooked circle surrounded by lines.

“You call me sun?” Shane murmurs wonderingly.

“Ah, yes. Little sun. Is Russian endearment.”

“Why?”

“You make me warm and happy,” Ilya mumbles, cheeks turning faintly pink. Gabrielle coos as the color of Shane’s face matches Ilya’s.

Shane wordlessly pulls Ilya to his feet and removes one of the bandages. “This, um, this is mon chou.”

Ilya studies the design. “Is… cabbage?”

Shane’s color heightens. “Yeah. My cabbage. I don’t know where it comes from but it’s like calling someone sweetheart. And, um.” Shane ducks his head a little. “You talk a lot about that cabbage soup.”

Ilya smiles softly. “Shchi. Yes. I do. I miss it.” Then he bends and reveals a second motif on Shane’s calf. “This is pomidor.”

Shane peers down. “Is that… a pumpkin?”

Ilya giggles. “It does look a little bit like pumpkin. But no. Is tomato. I call you my tomato because you blush a lot.”

Shane’s cheeks get impossibly hotter as Gabrielle snickers. “Fuck off,” he says half-heartedly.

“Why? Is so cute!”

Ilya looks much too happy with himself, so Shane abruptly tugs him up and rips the second bandage off. “Well, I’ve been calling you chaton because you keep rubbing your face all over me and you purr if I play with your hair.”

Ilya peers down at the lopsided cat face and guffaws. “Impossible!” He bends again and pulls the last bit of bandage off Shane’s leg, revealing pointed ears and whiskers. “I have been calling you kotenok, is for kitten!”

Shane meets Ilya’s disbelieving gaze, and they start laughing uncontrollably.

“Wow, two kittens, and you have somehow found each other. No wonder your backs are always scratched up,” Gabrielle cuts in, thoroughly amused.

“Wait, why do you call me kitten?” Shane asks once they've calmed down.

“Because you make angry kitten face when you are mad,” Ilya explains with a shit-eating grin. Shane scowls. “Yes, exactly like this!”

Shane hits the light switch on the outside of the cell, shoves a delighted Ilya further inside, then slides the heavy metal door shut. “Sorry Gabrielle, I think I need to sharpen my claws on my boyfriend’s back,” he calls out. He is not sorry at all.

Besides, his boyfriend has grandiosely promised him nineteen birthday orgasms, one for each year he’s been alive. Time to make good on that.

Much, much later that night

“What do you want for your birthday next month?”

Ilya squirms a little bit. He is extremely cozy as the little spoon, but the nights are getting warmer and he and Shane are quite sticky from their earlier endeavors.

What Ilya wants is forever with Shane, but he can’t ask for that when they’ve only been official for a few weeks. “I want to fuck you in sunlight,” he states instead. He wants to watch golden skin ripple as he fucks into Shane, freckled expanse heaving and undulating as Shane moans and arches to meet him halfway. He has been imagining it for months, and he thinks he’ll probably die at the sight. Worth it. Died doing what I love. Doing who I love.

Shane hums. “Best I can do is dawn. But I promise sunlight once we’re released. We can rent a cottage somewhere out in the woods, and you could fuck me outside. No bars, no barbed wire, no metal furniture, no cement, not a wall in sight.”

Ilya’s heart clenches. “Sounds perfect,” he murmurs. Perfect like you. Shane squeezes him tighter.

They lie in the dark for a while, until Ilya speaks up again. “I am scared. Of what comes after,” he whispers.

“Me too.”

“I mean for you and me.”

“Me too.”

Ilya twists in Shane’s arms, locking lips in a silent promise. I will not leave you, please do not leave me. I need you. And I think you need me too. I am here, always, so long as you want me. Please want me.

They fall asleep like that, barely an inch between their mouths. It’s like they need to share everything – even carbon dioxide – in case it’s their last time.

Chapter End Notes

*What Shane says in French: “Because you’re my kitten, and I’ll always take care of you.”

*Please do NOT follow these instructions to tattoo yourself at home. It is not safe, not sanitary, go see a professional! You can hire a stick and poke artist if you want that single-needle, machine-less vibe without the health complications that can come from DIYing.

*Got a great question about whether this amount of time spent in pretrial detention is realistic. Now I don’t know for specific cases/crimes, but in general I would say yes. Now I need to base this answer on older data as the R. v. Jordan Supreme Court decision changed things. What I found is that in 2008-2009, for people who got a sentence of 2 years or longer, the median number of days spent in pretrial detention was ~3 months (84 days). This means that for half the people, it took longer than that. In a different dataset from 2014-2015 that looked at everyone, results show that the median delay between the beginning and end of a case getting treated in court was ~4 months (127 days); again, that means half the cases took longer. For people like Shane and Ilya who are held up to their trial, that would mean spending this entire time behind bars.

*There's a bunch of factors contributing to how long it takes, including the sheer volume of cases to be processed and different parts of the proceedings getting pushed back all the time. More complex cases take longer. I am not a lawyer but I would think this one is at least a little complicated as it happened in a bar, victim/offender statements would have contradicted each other as the victim (Makarov) would have tried to make himself look better, and witnesses are drunk aka unreliable.

*Anyway because of such delays, people often feel pressured to accept a plea bargain (pleading guilty in exchange for a better or shorter sentence). This is unfortunate as it happens a lot that people plead guilty just to gtfo even if they have the right to a fair trial (including people who are innocent). A lot of people may find it less shitty to accept a 30 day prison sentence than wait around in pretrial detention for months with no end in sight!!! However in Shane and Ilya's case, they don't want to plead guilty as that could fuck up immigration and/or career stuff, so better to wait it out until a judge makes a decision, in case that decision is "not guilty".

*ALSO back when this story happened, 58% of the daily incarcerated population was in pretrial detention, across Canada. I haven’t looked at recent country-wide data but in Québec, it was over 70% when I checked last year!! Which means less than 30% of incarcerated people were actively considered guilty the crime that led to their incarceration!! All that to say, this story is about an issue that is widespread and highly concerning from a human rights perspective.

Chapter 13: Love and Liability

Chapter Summary

Ilya and Shane discover the meanings of liability. Another ‘L’ word is uttered.

Chapter Notes

CW: allusion to familial violence and to fear of sexual assault. Victim blaming.

Établissement de détention de Montréal / prison de Bordeaux, May 2010

Ilya walks past the television in the common area when something stops him short.

“Unnamed sources have claimed that the Boston Raiders are exploring their options to cut ties with Ilya Rozanov, who was selected as number one pick in the MLH’s 2009 entry draft.”

Ilya almost drops his food. Heart hammering, he forces himself to turn toward the screen and pay attention to what the news anchor is saying.

“These sources report that Rozanov was described as a liability given his alleged attack against Sergey Makarov, a teammate at the World Junior Championships, as well as his subsequent incarceration. Rumors pertaining to Rozanov’s sexuality were also deemed too great of an organizational risk to take on given possible complications with Russia, his home country.”

Ilya’s ears start to buzz and he tunes out the anchor’s words as she moves on to another segment. His feet are rooted in place, his hands are shaking, and his mind is filled with a single thought: This is exactly what I was afraid of.

Ilya startles when Shane materializes at his side and pinches his elbow. “Everything okay?” Shane whispers.

Ilya shakes himself and turns toward his boyfriend. “What is liability?” he asks quietly. Probably not the ability to lie.

Shane frowns in confusion. “Um, what’s the context?”

“Raiders want to get rid of me.”

Shane’s eyes widen. “What the fuck Ilya!” he hisses. He drags Ilya away, beelining for the staircase that will take them up to their cell.

Ilya lets Shane maneuver him through the common area. “So? What is liability?”

“They think keeping you would be a risk. Like, it would look bad for the team,” Shane explains through gritted teeth.

Once they’ve made it to their cell, Shane manhandles Ilya into the bunk and curls around him protectively. “I’m sorry, mon chou. You don’t deserve this.”

Ilya sighs. “I know. They said was about punching Makarov and prison and Russia, but I think was more about homophobia.”

Shane tightens his hold on Ilya. “Point still stands. You don’t deserve this, and they’re stupid, and they suck,” he argues fiercely.

Although on a rational level Ilya knows this, it warms his heart to hear his boyfriend defend him so staunchly. He wordlessly squishes Shane’s hand against his chest and they lie there in silence for a while.

Shane eventually speaks up. “How… how are you feeling about it?” he tentatively asks.

Ilya sighs again, scrubbing his face. “Shocked but not surprised.”

“What do you mean?”

“Like, is bad news, yes? Shocking to hear this out of nowhere, on random Tuesday. But also not surprised, I was maybe expecting something bad to happen.” Ilya stops. He doesn’t want to explain that his father has inadvertently taught him to always expect the worse. Whether he behaves or misbehaves, there will always be a sharp word, a slap to the head, and even the occasional beating. From a very young age, Ilya learned that it is safer to stay poised and ready to react to unpleasant circumstances as well as danger.

Shane nods then presses a kiss to the nape of Ilya’s neck. “That makes sense. But I’m still sorry.”

“Is not your fault, Shane.”

“I know,” Shane answers quickly.

“Do you?”

“Yeah. It’s the Raiders’ fault,” Shane answers firmly. Ilya is glad that his boyfriend seems to have let go of some of the guilt he’d been carrying.

They stay like this for hours, chatting quietly, Ilya drawing comfort from Shane’s warmth and steadfastness.

“What will I do?” Ilya finally whispers. Once he gets out of prison, he’ll be stateless, homeless, and unemployed. Worst package deal ever.

Thankfully, Shane picks up on the subtext. “Aren’t you staying with me?” Despite the phrasing, it sounds like a fact rather than a question; like an inevitability, something that didn’t even need to be spelled out for it to be true.

Ilya stills. “Am I?” He feels his heartrate increase. Of course he has hoped for this outcome, but he would never ask; he’d be too worried it would come across as pressuring Shane into agreeing, which would lead to resentment down the line. He certainly never would have assumed.

“Well yeah. Of course you are. Um, don’t you want to?” Shane sounds unsure, like he’s worried he’s pressuring Ilya into agreeing.

The love Ilya feels for this ridiculous, kind, unwaveringly supportive, brave, neurotic man swells until it can no longer be contained inside his ribcage. “I love you,” he blurts out, then claps a hand against his mouth. Shit. He did not mean to say it, especially not in English.

Shane inhales sharply, digging his fingernails into Ilya’s pec. “What?”

Shit, shit, shit, shit, shit, I fucked it all up. “I…” Ilya chokes out.

Shane abruptly unlatches from Ilya’s back and almost violently presses Ilya’s shoulder down. Ilya yelps, suddenly finding himself on his back and staring up at Shane, who hovers above. Shane props himself up on an elbow and cups Ilya’s cheek with the other hand, gentle after being so brusque. “I love you too,” he says slowly, firmly, steadily meeting Ilya’s gaze.

“Oh,” Ilya breathes out. His eyes start to water, blurring Shane’s beautiful features. “Really?”

Shane huffs. “Yeah, really, dumbass. Of course I love you. I wouldn’t have let you tattoo a shitty tomato on me if I didn’t. You may be great at hockey but you’re an awful artist.”

“Am also great at sex,” Ilya reasons, voice cracking.

“Yeah. Yeah you are.”

They tearily beam at each other then crash their mouths together. It’s messy and Ilya’s teeth keep clacking against Shane’s, but it’s perfect because it’s a kiss from his favorite person in the world. Whom he loves. And who apparently loves him back. I am the luckiest man alive, he thinks giddily.

Shane eventually pulls back, smirking when Ilya chases his lips. “So. Was that a yes? Will you move in with me?”

“Yes, Shane, I will move in with you. Will be trophy boyfriend in big, millionaire house, buy designer clothes on your credit card and cook and clean and wait for you to come home so I can fuck you until you forget own name.” Ilya grins proudly, only half-joking.

Shane laughs. “Well, I won’t be a millionaire on an entry level contract, and it won’t be that glamorous at first. We’ll have to stay at my parents’ house until we find a place in Montreal. If they still want me,” he winces.

Ilya has spoken to Yuna Hollander enough times to feel a little apprehensive about sharing space with her, but he’s not worried that she’ll agree to take him in. Or not overly worried, at least. “Okey. Yes. We do this.”

“Yeah. We’ll be okay. Right?”

Ilya smiles softly. “Yes, moya lyubov', we will be okey if we are together.” This he does not doubt at all.

Two days later

Shane is almost painfully uncomfortable.

His calling card has run out and he only just ordered a new one through commissary; he won’t receive it for days. He and Ilya are persona non grata in the wing, so they can’t trade for a card either. Farah does not have a landline so they can’t place collect calls, while they keep missing Shane’s parents’ landline.

Because of this, Ilya has no way of finding out whether the rumors about the Raiders trying to ditch him are true. Their solution is to watch television all day in the common area, hoping they will obtain more details. The problem with this tactic is that it involves sitting on non-ergonomical plastic chairs for hours on end (physically uncomfortable) while also willingly turning themselves into sitting ducks, subject to the heavy and hostile gazes of about two hundred other men (psychologically uncomfortable). They’ve also been ‘bumped into’ a suspicious number of times, considering there is plenty of space to go around them. Shane is sure the intent is to provoke a fight, so whoever just elbowed them can justify committing a hate crime.

Gabrielle is keeping them company as much as possible and she's stated that although she can’t throw a punch, she can certainly claw a bitch’s face off. She can also leverage her role in the wing so her clients remain polite, for fear of losing access to her services. Even so, she cannot spend entire days with Shane and Ilya, needing to step away for work every so often. Also, her social standing only protects them from detainees who are already less likely to be overtly homophobic or transphobic.

Shane cracks his neck again and shifts in his seat, trying to find an angle that doesn’t hurt his butt. He does not succeed. Today’s vigil is especially laborious because in order to keep the peace, the wing switches between French and English language channels on a daily basis. Today is a French day, meaning the responsibility of paying attention rests entirely on Shane’s shoulders while Gabrielle is away. Ilya fidgets at his side, bored by the lack of distraction but unwilling to let Shane fend for himself.

Then something catches Shane’s attention and he leans forward suddenly enough to startle Ilya out of his stupor.

“What is it?” Ilya asks.

Shane shushes him, focused on understanding the rapid flow of French.

A young woman who seems vaguely familiar sits in an armchair, tearily speaking to a talk show host. “J’ai des cauchemars de qu’est-ce qui aurait pu arriver si Shane Hollander avait pas été là. Sans lui pis Ilya Rozanov, je suis sûre que j’aurais été violée. Le gars était une armoire à glace pis y m’écoutait pas, y me tirait pour me forcer à partir avec lui. Y me serrait le bras tellement fort que j’ai eu des bleus. J’arrêtais pas d’y dire que non, non, que je voulais pas partir avec lui, pis ça avait l’air de l’exciter.” The woman shivers, visibly perturbed.

“It’s Makarov’s almost-victim,” Shane whispers to Ilya, whose eyes widen. “She has nightmares about what could have happened if it weren’t for you and me. She’s convinced Makarov would have raped her, he was pulling her so hard she got bruises. She kept saying no and it looked like it turned him on.”

“Vous pensez pas que les deux joueurs ont réagi trop violemment ? Selon d’autres témoins, c’est Hollander qui a frappé en premier,” the host asks.

“Non, pas du tout. Le grand russe était tellement agressif, ils auraient pu y aller vraiment plus fort. Si Rozanov avait pas fini ce que Hollander a commencé, on se serait fait tabasser solide.”

“She’s saying that even if I threw the first punch, we didn’t overreact. We could have punched him harder because he was so aggressive,” Shane translates. “And that if you hadn’t stepped in, the two of us would have gotten beat up really bad.”

“Et pourquoi vous avez pas pris la parole auparavant ?” the host presses.

“She’s asking why the girl didn’t speak up before now,” Shane murmurs.

“J’ai essayée ! Sur le coup j’étais trop sous le choc pour parler à la police, alors je suis allée au poste le lendemain. Y m’ont faite écrire mon témoignage, mais ils avaient pas l’air de me prendre au sérieux. Y’ont même dit que c’était ma faute parce que j’étais dans un bar plein de joueurs de hockey pis j’avais trop bu.” She presses her lips together in displeasure. “Après, y’ont jamais donné suite à ça. J’ai appelé plusieurs fois, encore plus après que le cas soit médiatisé, mais on m’a pas donné d’explications.”

“She tried. She was in shock so she only talked to the police the next day. They made her write down what she saw, but they didn’t take her seriously and blamed her for what happened cause she was drunk in a bar full of hockey players. And then she kept calling but they said nothing, and nothing happened even after our case was picked up by the media.”

“Qu’est-ce qui vous a poussée à vous adresser aux médias ?” the host inquires.

“C’est quand j’ai vu qu’Ilya Rozanov allait perdre sa job parce qu’il m’est venue en aide. Je pouvais pas garder le silence. C’est une injustice totale,” the young woman says fervently. “Mais je savais pas c’était qui leur avocat, alors je suis allée vers les médias.”

“She went to the media after learning that you’d lose your job over helping her. She says it’s a massive injustice.” Shane reaches out to squeeze Ilya’s shoulder, noticing how moved his boyfriend seems. “She also didn’t know who our legal team is, which is why she spoke to media.”

Ilya gulps. “The host, she is calm but looks… maybe angry?”

“I think she’s trying to stay professional but she’s also outraged for the woman. And for us.” Shane feels a wave of about 72 emotions wash over him, too many to untangle fully. He thinks there might be a sense of vindication on Ilya’s behalf, indignation over the police’s reaction to the young woman’s statement, lightheartedness over people understanding that he wasn’t just violent over nothing, sadness that they thought so in the first place, relief over his reputation potentially getting salvaged, smug satisfaction that the Raiders are going to come across as assholes after this. And maybe… is that hope? “Ilya,” he whispers. “I think… I think maybe we’ll get out of here soon.”

Ilya reaches over, gripping Shane’s fingers. It hurts but it doesn’t matter; Shane squeezes back just as hard.

A few days later

Ilya is forced to recognize that Shane may be right.

Ilya was initially very doubtful; at this point it has been months since anything has gone his way when it comes to the powers that be. Yet sitting in front of the television day in and day out, avidly reading the newspaper clippings Gabrielle scrounges up, has him reconsidering. There seems to be public outroar over the fact that he and Shane are in prison at all given relentless media appearances by Véronique Therrien, the young woman they helped out.

He glances down at the English-language clippings they’ve gathered.

‘Release the Rookies’: Véronique Therrien Gives First Interview In English

Women’s Advocacy Groups Support Hollander & Rozanov, State Men Should Hold Each Other Accountable

Student-Led Petition Demanding Hollander & Rozanov’s Release Obtains 35,000 Signatures in 24h

‘Bar Brawls Are Nightmares to Prosecute’: Law Professor Explains How Hockey Players Could be Released from Montreal Prison

Still No Confirmation from Boston Raiders: Will #1 Draft Pick Be Dropped?

Montreal Metros General Manager Looking Forward to Having ‘Such an Upstanding Citizen as Shane Hollander’ Join Team

Metros Captain on Potential Gay Rookies & Team Dynamics: ‘I Don’t Give a ****. Have You Seen Them Play? Maybe Liking [Men] is an Advantage’

Ilya feels a fresh stab of envy as he rereads those last few clippings. As happy as he is that Shane is backed by his team, it does make Ilya’s current standing with the Raiders feel even more unfair. He knows it’s not Shane’s fault, and he’s sure the Metros GM probably only said that for the optics. Silence would be a liability, he ponders mournfully. If the GM were actually supportive, he would have made a statement immediately after Hayden Pike’s interview. Still, Ilya wishes the Raiders weren't trying to get rid of him in the first place. Even if they backpedal now, Ilya would never be able to trust his employers (not that he’d have any flexibility to do something about it).

Ilya’s train of thought is interrupted when he hears his and Shane’s names come through the wing’s loudspeaker. He locks eyes with Shane and they wordlessly rise from their shitty plastic seats near the television. They make their way toward the guards’ security room, while Gabrielle catches up a moment later.

“You did not even wait for me,” she huffs, out of breath from jogging across the common area.

“You were busy with client,” Ilya says. He is so nervous that his words sound a little terse, but he knows Gabrielle won’t take it personally.

She rolls her eyes. “So? I will talk to him later. It is not like he is going anywhere.”

“Thanks for coming,” Shane says quietly.

“Of course. What are friends for?” she says lightly, bumping her shoulder against Shane’s.

“Getting terrible news together, probably,” Ilya offers. He was aiming for levity but it falls flat. Nobody calls him on it.

They step up to the security room and are met with their least favorite guard, Bouchard. “Ah, Hollander et Rozanov. Et Jean,” he greets them with barely concealed disgust.

Bouchard keeps speaking French so Ilya has no idea what the screw is saying. But he does see Shane’s expression switch to vacant, like his soul has temporarily left the building. “What did he say?” Ilya asks impatiently.

Shane’s mind goes blank for an instant. Did I hear that right? He feels shellshocked.

Beside him, Gabrielle whoops and claps. “You are getting out!” she exclaims.

“What?” Ilya all but yells.

“Yes! Later today or tomorrow. He said to pack your things!” Gabrielle beams.

Ilya hoots and gathers Shane into his arms. “Solnyshko, did you hear? We are getting out!”

Shane doesn’t move, and his thoughts feel distant. Can you be shellshocked by something good?

“Shane,” Ilya says, lightly gripping Shane’s trapezius muscle. “Are you okey?”

Shane forces himself to nod. The movement is jerky.

“Circulez,” Bouchard calls out impatiently. Circulate.

Shane is gently coaxed back to the cell, then Ilya slips two fingers into his partially clenched fist. “Shane, I want to call Maître Proulx to see what happened, then call your mother. You can come with me or stay here with Gabrielle, who will sit outside and not talk. Can you squeeze once for come with me, twice for stay here?”

Shane inhales deeply. “I’m coming with you,” he croaks out. “I’m not shutting down. Just really didn’t expect this and don't know how to process it. I’ll be fine in a minute.” He offers his boyfriend a wan smile. “Thank you for taking care of me, though.”

Ilya smiles back. “Always.”

Ilya grabs the calling card – the commissary order having finally come through – and the three of them make their way to the payphones. At Shane’s insistence, Ilya dials the criminal lawyer’s number first.

“Hi boys, I’m sorry I wasn’t able to directly inform you of the developments,” Maître Proulx starts.

“No do not worry about this, is how prison is.” Ilya reassures. “We are happy about news, of course, but… what happened?”

Maître Proulx explains that victims have no special status in criminal cases, they are considered witnesses for the prosecution. And since the main witness, Sergey Makarov, has been unreachable since his return to Russia, the case rests on testimonies from intoxicated (and therefore unreliable) witnesses as well as on other types of evidence. Makarov never submitted pictures of his injury, while videos taken by the bar’s surveillance system undermine his credibility. Indeed, these show him dragging a struggling Véronique Therrien through the bar.

“Remember that guilt has to be proven beyond a reasonable doubt, and if all the evidence is shaky it is very hard to achieve this standard. This is why bar brawls are difficult to prosecute,” Maître Proulx continues. “And given public outcry, the Crown has to consider whether pursuing these charges is worth it, or whether it would undermine the public’s faith in the legal system. The Crown likely also decided that this case was not worth the drain on public resources. All that to say, they called me to say they withdraw, so you are no longer accused of a crime and you’re free to go.”

“Oh,” Shane says most eloquently.

“So… continuing case would be liability for justice system?” Ilya summarizes. Shane smiles to himself; his boyfriend is so smart.

“You could say that, yes.”

They wrap up the conversation, then Shane dials his mother’s number. He’s not sure why, but his heart is pounding and his hands are clammy. His mom picks up on the third ring and Shane opens his mouth to deliver the news, but she cuts him off.

“Ottawa wants Ilya,” she blurts.

Chapter End Notes

***Only one chapter left to go!!!!!! How we feeling???***

*Montreal being supportive is realistic imo, it’s suchhh a gay city and the Habs had supportive things to say post-Heated Rivalry so I refuse to follow canon on this. And it’s def a PR decision anyway.

*The legal reasons for their release are realistic.

*As for Boston getting rid of Ilya, look. I know that fanon loves to imagine the team as welcoming, despite canon saying they would have sucked. Personally, I think there are so many Republican hockey players in the NHL; it’s plausible to me that they suck.

However, I’m not clear on the exact process; I did a ton of research but kept it intentionally vague as I don’t want to say something inaccurate. (The players’ Collective Bargaining Agreement is 500 pages of confusing sports legalese. Also the oldest version of it that was up on the website went into effect in 2013; some of the provisions might not have been possible in 2010.) Based on my (limited) understanding, 4 things could have happened:

1. If Ilya hasn’t already signed his entry level contract with Boston by June 1st, he’s no longer claimed by Boston. I think. Specifically, between the draft and getting a contract, they’re Unsigned Draft Choices who appear on their teams’ Reserve List up until June 1st. If no signing has happened by then, they’re no longer on the Reserve List… whatever that means. The problem is I don’t know how soon the actual signing of the contract would have happened after the draft; I just know that since Shane and Ilya kept playing in juniors, if they did get contracts soon after those were “slid” forward one year and won’t take effect until the 2010-2011 season.

2. If he had a contract, Boston could also have decided that Ilya is in material breach of their code of conduct. He would have this standard clause on the contract: “To conduct himself on and off the rink according to the highest standards of honesty, morality, fair play and sportsmanship, and to refrain from conduct detrimental to the best interest of the Club, the League or professional hockey generally.” Punching your teammate in the face is probably not deemed good sportsmanship, while they could possibly have made the morality part about sexuality if they’re homophobic asses. Howeverrr idk if that part of his contract would have been considered in effect if the contract is slid forward one year for juniors.

3. Alternately, Ilya would not have been eligible for placement on regular waivers (there is an article that’s clear on this). But since there’s no other specification I assume he could have been put on unconditional waivers?? This is what a team does to terminate a player – place them as up for grabs by any other team for 24h (48h if it’s the weekend), and if nobody wants the player, they’re bumped down to the minors.

4. Howeverrrr article 8.8 also says that “The rights acquired under the selection process under this Article [Entry Draft] shall be transferable without Waivers to any other Club by standard assignment and the transferee Club shall thereby acquire all of the rights of the original selecting Club.” I think this means you can transfer a player who was claimed by a team via the entry draft, and that you can do this without going through the waivers process. BUT it might be about teams trading their draft pick order?? Idk.

Chapter 14: Home

Chapter Summary

Ilya and Shane find their way home.

Chapter Notes

Dear gentlereaders, you were all so good for me! Of course I always reward my subs… cribers’ good behavior, so I am sharing this a little before we hit the 10k milestone!

One thing to know, ‘gu’ sounds like a hard ‘g’ in French. So the town name you’ll see is funny because it sounds exactly like if you dropped the ‘u’ from the word.

Without further ado, please enjoy Shane and Ilya’s happy ending!

CW: offensive comment about SA; homophobia.

Centaurs practice facility, Kanata, September 2010

It takes all of a few hours into the Centaurs’ training camp for Ilya to snap. Seriously, he’s had it with all the stares and whispers. He thought he’d wait until officially making the roster before addressing the elephant in the room, but apparently the entirety of the Centaurs’ reserve list has opinions on where he spent his winter and spring, and especially where he likes to put his dick. Enough.

When the coaching staff call for a break, Ilya wastes no time banging his stick on the ice to draw everyone’s attention. “Okey listen up people! I have announcement!” Ilya waits as his would-be colleagues form a loose circle around him. He scans their features for any hint of hostility; there is none as of yet, which Ilya counts as a win.

After a sufficiently dramatic interlude, Ilya raises his voice again. “What you have heard about me is true!” He pauses for effect, then delivers his line. “I am better player than all of you!” The assembled guys groan and a few chuckle, empowering Ilya to continue. “Don’t believe me? Will take bets!”

“Shut the fuck up, Roz! Nobody’s dumb enough to take you up on that!” a veteran calls out good-naturedly.

“Eh, lot of concussions in this room, you never know!” Ilya grins. His plan was to a) bait, b) charm, c) dispel doubt as to his place on the team; so far so good. “Okey, okey, here is real announcement I wanted to make.” He takes a deep breath. “Is also true I went to prison for nothing and lived with Hollander. And before you ask: yes, what you have heard about him is also true.” Another pause. “… Hollander is most boring man in world.”

This time he gets genuine laughs. “Fuck off, Roz!”

Ilya smiles sweetly. “Any questions?”

“Are you gay?” a fellow rookie asks. Ilya can tell he’s not the only one who wants to know, given the expectant expressions on the other players’ faces.

“Why, you want to suck my dick? No thank you,” Ilya shoots back. The rookie blushes and looks away, to jeers from other players. “No, am not gay.” It’s not technically a lie as he is bisexual. He wishes he could be completely honest, but it’s still a homophobic sport. More importantly, he had to drop his asylum claim in order to get on a work visa that would allow him to travel out of the country alongside the Centaurs. For this reason, he and Shane agreed that they would deflect questions as to their sexualities and relationship until Ilya obtained Permanent Residency through the usual pathways, not lying but not offering the whole truth either. “But also, is nothing wrong with being gay and everything wrong with being homophobe. Yes?” Ilya glares at the men around him and some of them mumble their assent. Not perfect, but better than nothing. “Any more questions, or I can go eat protein bar without everyone acting like is most interesting thing they ever see?”

“Saw you and Hollander acting awfully chummy all over town this summer, what’s up with that?”

Ilya knew this would come up so he makes a show of rolling his eyes. “We were eighteen and living in tiny shithole in medium-size shithole filled with two-hundred older men, some violent. We always stick together for safety, yes? Became, how you say, second nature. And then I only know him in Canada, stayed with his family after prison.” Ilya takes a steadying breath before delivering the final tidbit of information, feigning nonchalance. “I billet with his parents for now.”

Thankfully his teammates opt to tease him over being codependent with Shane, whatever that means, and start making fun of him for sucking up to the Hollander parents. Nobody has anything further to say about his possible queerness. Mission accomplished.

Metros practice facility, Brossard, two weeks later

“Watch yourselves, boys. Hollander’s joining us in the showers, who knows what they taught him in prison!”

Shane whips to face whatever idiot said that. He’s been biting his tongue for two weeks, mindful of his triply precarious position as an incoming rookie, as an allegedly-possibly-definitely gay guy, and as the only person of color in the room. Now that training camp has ended and he’s officially made the Metros roster for the 2010-2011 season, he will no longer be holding back.

Although his mother has taught him to be the bigger person when faced with overt racism, to keep his head down and to prove himself invaluable to would-be detractors, Shane has spent the summer reevaluating that strategy. Now that people suspect he’s gay, he knows he’ll have to come on strong and ensure that no player questions his masculinity. (Which is such a stupid hill to die on, why are straight men so convinced it’s less-than-manly for two guys to get together? The logic is flawed, in Shane’s view what he does with Ilya should be considered doubly masculine.)

It’s all the more important to maintain an appearance of unimpeachable masculinity as Shane has always had to deal with racist tropes framing Asian men as inherently more feminine than others. And of course, femininity is viewed as the worst trait a man could have. How many times has he heard disparaging comments about his dick size, although these were completely unfounded? Being attractive has compounded this attitude fellow players have historically held, leading to Shane getting called a pretty boy (derogatory) more often than not.

All that to say, Shane refuses to simply grin and bear it anymore. And if there’s one thing he can count on, it’s that prison should give him tough guy street cred in the eyes of these Neanderthals.

Shane faces the imbecile who made that godawful ‘joke’, feet braced wide, shoulders squared, head held high. He keeps his posture loose, like he considers Comeau a total non-threat. “You think rape is something to joke about?” he asks softly. In his years spent as a captain, Shane has found that this is more effective than any amount of yelling. Just as he anticipated, his tone is intimidating enough to cut through the lively atmosphere in the showers, prompting his teammates to fall silent. “Around me? Someone who’d rather go to prison than let a guy get away with rape?” Shane tilts his head to the side, scanning Comeau with a disgusted expression. “Good to know. I’ll be sure to cockblock you anytime you so much as think of approaching a woman.”

Comeau’s face goes through approximately five different shades before settling on an angry burgundy. His jaw works as he tries to come up with an equally devastating retort. “Tu penses que j’ai besoin d’aller vers elles pour les convaincre de coucher avec moi ? C’est peut-être ton cas, mais y’a toujours un troupeau de filles qui suit les vrais hommes. Pas que tu comprendrais, criss de tapette,” Comeau sneers as Drapeau and a handful of others snicker. You think I need to go to women and convince them to sleep with me? That might be your case, but chicks flock to real men. Not that you’d understand, fucking faggot.

Shane laughs meanly and takes a step closer until he’s almost chest to chest with Comeau. “Whoever made you think you’re attractive was lying to your face and hooking up with you for clout. You’re nobody’s type, Comeau.” Shane hears a few guys stifling laughter; clearly the mood in the room is shifting in his favor, probably because Comeau is an insufferable asshole who loves to brag and has insufficient skill to back that up. “As for the other thing, call me that again and I’ll show you exactly what I learned to do with a toothbrush in prison.” Shane takes a few steps back, then turns and points to a scar on his shoulder blade. “It’s called a shank.”

Comeau pales but Drapeau scoffs, jumping to his moron bestie’s defense. “Pourquoi qu’on aurait peur de ton esti de brosse à dents, quand tu t’es fait poignarder avec ?” he spits out. Why would we be scared of your fucking toothbrush, when you got stabbed with it?

Shane chuckles and turns to face his audience once more, a menacing smile slowly creeping across his features as he meets his teammates’ eyes one by one. “You think this is bad?” he murmurs. “Wait til you see the other guy.”

The showers remain silent for a moment, until Shane’s fellow rookie Hayden Pike whistles. “Jesus Christ Hollzy, I thought you were scary at World Juniors. Now I definitely don’t want to get on your bad side!” Pike claps Shane on the shoulder and just like that, the tension breaks.

“You’re a fucking dog, man,” a guy exclaims approvingly, other players nodding their agreement.

Later, Shane escapes the locker room and beelines to the parking lot. He tenses when he hears rapid footsteps coming up behind him.

“Hollzy, wait!”

Shane sighs in relief, recognizing Pike’s voice. “Hey, Pike, what’s up?” he asks, waiting for the other man to catch up and fall into step.

“Oh, nothing much, nothing much. Glad we have a couple days off before pre-season starts.”

“Oh yeah, same.” Shane wracks his brain for the appropriate social script. “You, uh, got any plans?”

“Nah, just gonna go home and play video games.” Pike pauses, carefully glancing at Shane. “So. A shank, huh?”

Shane stiffens. He distinctly did not get shanked, that scar is from stabbing himself on broken glass while wrestling at a teammate’s house party in Kingston. He forgot that having played with Pike through two World Junior Championships, the other man would have seen it before.

“Relax, man, I won’t tell anyone,” Pike offers reassuringly, bumping his shoulder into Shane’s. “I’m glad you put the fear of god into Comeau, guy’s been a sexist homophobic prick all the way through camp.”

Shane’s muscles unclench and he smiles at Pike. “Oh. Good. Happy to take bigots down a few notches.”

Pike grins back. “Great. Also, uh, I wanted to say. About the rumors, you know… You and Rozanov.” Pike winces but barrels on. “Not saying they’re true but if they are, that’s… it’s cool with me. Love is love. And all that,” he concludes awkwardly.

Shane forgets to blink, caught off-guard both by Pike’s words and by his earnestness. The silence stretches on and Pike starts to fidget uncomfortably, until Shane’s lips curl up in a smile. “Thanks, Pike. That’s nice of you to say.”

“Hayden – call me Hayden. If you want!” Pike blurts.

“Sure, Hayden, and you can call me Shane.” Shane thinks for a moment and makes an executive decision. “You want to come home with me? I’m having dinner with my family.”

Hayden lights up. “Oh! Yeah, sure!” he agrees eagerly.

Shane can’t help but think Hayden looks like a golden retriever. He unlocks his SUV and pulls the passenger door open. “Okay, get in. We just have to make a stop along the way.”

Half an hour later, Shane pulls up in front of his apartment building in Westmount. He shoots off another text and two familiar figures emerge a few minutes later.

“Hey Shane!” Gabrielle exclaims as she slides into the back seat.

“Buddy! Nice to see you,” Jay says warmly when he joins her a moment later.

Hayden turns in his seat, reaching for Gabrielle’s hand. “Oh, uh. Hi! I’m Hayden. How do you know Shane?” he blushes, clearly flustered by her beauty.

“From living together,” Gabrielle answers coyly. “Nice to meet you Hayden, this is Jay. He lives nearby.”

“Hey man. You play hockey too?” Jay asks politely as Shane merges back into traffic.

“Yeah! On Shane’s team.”

“That’s nice,” Jay answers blandly, sharing a look with Gabrielle which Shane catches in the rearview mirror.

“Hayden’s good, guys, don’t worry,” Shane vouches, hoping he hasn’t miscalculated. He can tell Hayden’s confused over Jay and Gabrielle’s hesitance, so he adds, “Boyfriend couldn’t make it?”

“No, Dom had work. Again.” Jay shrugs. Shane hasn’t met Dom yet, but according to Gabrielle Dom being overworked is a big stressor in Jay’s life.

“That’s a bummer,” Gabrielle offers sympathetically.

“Did you meet on Kijiji? I kind of hate living with teammates, might try my luck on there,” Hayden asks the car (while staring at Gabrielle over his shoulder). Shane bites back a smile, Hayden is so far removed from subtle.

“Ah, no. Shane here likes to use his multimillionaire privilege to save damsels in distress.” Gabrielle is alluding to the fact that as soon as Shane got out of prison, he hired Maître Proulx to look into her case. Turns out Gabrielle’s Charter rights were violated so the prosecution withdrew the charges against her. Since Gabrielle was unable to pay her rent while incarcerated, her return home was dampened by the realization that she’d been evicted. Shane immediately offered his guest room and they have been roommates ever since.

“First of all I’m not a millionaire yet, second of all I don’t have a thing for any woman at all, and third of all I’m pretty sure you’ve saved my ass more times than I’ve saved yours.” Shane will always be grateful for Gabrielle having his and Ilya’s backs in prison, whether through sharing her wisdom, bartering on their behalf, spreading counter-rumors, or physically putting herself between them and their hostile wingmates.

“Yeah, he has too much of a thing for Ilya’s ass to give a shit about ours,” Jay teases. Shane’s eyes instinctively dart toward Hayden, but his teammate surprises him by taking it in stride.

“Hockey players have the best asses,” Hayden offers solemnly. Pike looks at Gabrielle again and Shane aggressively chews the inside of his own cheek to avoid laughing. Not just a golden retriever, a fucking puppy.

“Anyway, we should be there in about an hour,” Shane cuts in before Hayden embarrasses himself any further.

“I thought it was family dinner at home? You’re not driving me all the way out to Ottawa, are you?” Hayden frowns.

“Oh no, we’re going to my home,” Shane explains. “With my chosen family, which is these two and Ilya.”

“Oh. Okay. And where’s home?” Hayden asks.

Shane meets Gabrielle’s and Jay’s eyes in the rearview mirror. “Guaytown!” they all yell, dissolving into a fit of giggles.

Guaytown, Ontario, two hours later

Ilya drums his fingers against the gear shift, trying to channel the nervous energy that has possessed him the entire drive. It’s probably ridiculous to feel this way, but Ilya can’t help it: after spending nine months nearly glued to Shane, being separated by training camp over the past two weeks has been simply miserable.

Well, nearly two weeks. The separation anxiety got so bad that they cracked about five days in and met at home to sleep in the same bed, before driving back to their respective cities at dawn. They were too exhausted to talk or do anything more than spooning, though, so that barely even counts.

Ilya looked up the definition and yes, he and Shane are definitely codependent. Apparently that’s bad (?) but Ilya does not give a shit; being around Shane settles him like nothing else, like he’s finally whole. And that is simply priceless.

Ilya realizes he’s less than ten minutes out when he drives past Antique Lisa. He and Shane spent hours in the cramped store over the summer, on the hunt for the kitschiest knickknacks to furnish their home. Of course they treated it like a competition, and of course they’ve had to agree to disagree on who won.

Back in May, Shane was relieved to move in with his parents and spend quality time with them, especially since he’d lived in Kingston prior to his time in Bordeaux prison. However it did not take long for Shane to start feeling infantilized and trapped. In early June, they decided to buy a house halfway between Ottawa and Montreal, so seeing each other would be more convenient during the hockey season. When Ilya spotted Guaytown on the map, he insisted they had to move there as the name was simply too perfect.

The second selling point for Guaytown was the presence of a junior hockey team close by, the Maxville Mustangs. Ilya figured that if he didn’t make the Centaurs roster, he’d have Farah negotiate for him to play a last year in juniors rather than going to the Centaurs’ AHL affiliate team all the way over in Belleville (three hours out from Ottawa, in a direction which would take Ilya much further away from Shane). The contingency plan fell through when the Mustangs were sold and moved to Papineauville; thankfully, Ilya made it onto the Centaurs roster.

Ilya spent his birthday scouting the area as the passenger princess to Shane’s designated driver, and it was the best road-trip he’d ever been on. The lush fields lining the road became a third selling point for Guaytown as they produced vast, limitless open spaces as far as the eye could see. Having spent months with his sightlines restricted by brick walls and barbed wire fences and hospital beige and asphalt gray, Ilya immediately found a specific freedom to driving through an agricultural community.

Ilya’s nose wrinkles when he catches a whiff of manure and he quickly rolls up his window. Despite all the selling points for Guaytown, Ilya is a certified city boy and he has yet to get over the smell accompanying his newfound pastoral freedom.

Ilya drives through the town part of North Glengarry before turning onto Marcoux road. Shane is very much into real estate and in the end, nothing in Guaytown met his exacting standards. This is how they wound up buying a property in a wooded area along Middle Lake, somewhere off an unnamed dirt road.

Antique Lisa is right next to the Guaytown label. Home is in a woodsy area between the lake and Marcoux Road.

Soon enough, Ilya pulls up in the driveway beside Shane’s boringly practical SUV. (Ilya’s car is equally practical due to Shane’s insistence on getting a vehicle that can handle dirt roads in a Canadian winter. Ilya dutifully complied, with one minor difference: his car is fire-engine red one as he staunchly refuses to be boring.) He grabs his duffel bag and hurries out, practically skipping up to the cozy cottage he calls home. The house has stone walls, a chimney, three dormer windows, an abruptly sloped roof with a slight curl at the bottom, and a small wooden porch. When they first visited, Shane excitedly explained that this was classic French-Canadian architecture, and that the roof’s shape helped snow slide off in the winter. Ilya was charmed by Shane’s enthusiasm just as much as he was by the building itself.

Ilya opens the door and is immediately hit by the aroma of shchi, a hearty cabbage and meat soup. His mouth waters and his eyes get suspiciously damp when he realizes Shane made this so Ilya would feel at home. He drops his bag and toes his shoes off, listening to the peels of laughter and the metallic clang of pans. Ilya races into the kitchen and jumps into Shane’s arms like a koala.

Shane, to his credit, is not even surprised by this almost forceful greeting and takes it completely in stride. “Privet, lyubov’ moya,” Shane murmurs, smiling happily before pressing a kiss into Ilya’s neck.

Ilya drops back onto his feet and kisses Shane hard, distantly aware that it’s probably not super appropriate in front of company. He does not care one whit. Ilya then pulls away and bumps his forehead against Shane’s. “Dorogoy,” he chokes out, trying not to sound overly emotional about finally being reunited with his love. “Your accent is bad.”

Shane huffs and playfully pushes him away. “Oh my god, if my accent’s off take it up with my teacher!” As the aforementioned teacher, Ilya just grins.

Behind them, someone clears their throat. Ilya remembers they have guests and turns to smile at Gabrielle, Jay, and is that… “Pike?” Ilya frowns.

The man in question gawks back before pulling himself together. “Oh hi Rozanov. Nice to see you again, off-ice I mean.” Pike extends his hand genially.

Ilya looks at Shane quizzically. “Why do I come home and find man who outed us as prisoners, which is reason we were outed as gay for each other, which turned me into refugee?”

Pike pales. “Oh fuck,” he grimaces. “I didn’t realize, I’m so sorry.”

“He’s here because he’s my friend and he’s going to have my back in the locker room as long as he plays for the Metros,” Shane states firmly. “Right Hayden?”

“Oh yeah for sure, dude, I got you,” Pike nods emphatically.

“You are so dramatic, Ilya,” Gabrielle chides, slapping Ilya’s arm. “He did not know.”

Ilya stares at Pike for a beat, then sighs. “Fine. If you are there for my Shane, I can forgive.”

“Good. When’s the food ready?” Jay interjects.

A few hours later

The kindling catches fire, then the log. Shane gently blows on the flame to help it spread. Finally satisfied, Shane pulls back from the fire pit and tries to sit down next to Ilya. Ilya growls and interrupts the motion, redirecting Shane onto his lap.

Shane snorts, delighted by Ilya’s antics. “Have a boner you’re trying to hide from company?”

“No,” Ilya pouts. “Just want to hug my sexy boyfriend who I missed for two whole weeks.”

“Uh-huh. You’re definitely not doing this because you find your boyfriend extra sexy when he starts a fire,” Shane deadpans.

“Of course not,” Ilya retorts, equally serious. Then the smile he’s been holding back breaks containment, and he bites Shane’s cheek.

“So, how long have you had this place?” Jay asks. “Sorry I’ve been so busy with school, I’ve missed a lot of things in the group chat.”

“Two months,” Shane replies easily before taking a swig from Ilya’s beer. “Enough time to make it feel like home.” He turns and smiles at Ilya lovingly.

“You guys must be so happy to have your own place, after the whole ‘moving back in with your parents’ thing,” Jay says.

“I still live there,” Ilya clarifies. “But yes – Shane was mortified to find dildo in childhood bedroom nightstand.” Gabrielle, Jay, and Hayden squawk, while Shane blushes furiously and tries to slap his palm against Ilya’s mouth. Unfortunately his boyfriend catches his wrist just in time and continues the frankly unnecessary explanation. “Shane’s dad moved it from old place in Kingston.”

“Oh my god Ilya, TMI!” Shane says indignantly, squirming until he pulls his arm free. His cheeks feel so hot he could probably fry an egg on them, like YouTubers do on asphalt in the summer. “Somebody change the subject!”

Ilya smoothly changes gears. “Speaking of school, Jay, Shane and me spent whole time in prison wondering why you never talk about it.”

“Yes, I have been wondering as well!” Gabrielle exclaims. “If I was doing a master’s degree, I would never shut up about it! Instead, we learned about it from the newspaper.”

It’s Jay’s turn to flush. “Oh, yeah. That. Uh… I don’t know where to start.”

“Is school connected to why you went to prison?” Shane asks astutely. Although he initially guessed that Jay was in prison for defrauding student aid, which was disproven when Jay revealed the drug dealing charge, Shane still suspects there is some correlation.

“Uh, yeah. I started dealing because I didn’t have funding for my studies, and the workload was so intense that it was hard to cover my bills without a more lucrative hustle. I also kind of thought it was a fuck you against the system, which was maybe not the smartest decision ever.” Gabrielle winces sympathetically, reaching around Hayden to squeeze Jay’s arm before he continues. “So, yeah, I got caught, and then it threw a wrench in what I’d planned to do for my master’s degree.”

“What do you mean?” Hayden asks. He seems a little lost as well as vaguely uncomfortable, now that he’s realized Jay is a former inmate. Shane snorts when he notices Hayden leaning slightly away from Jay and toward Gabrielle.

“So I built a project where I planned to study police repression of far-left activists. But then I was found guilty of possession with intent to distribute and thrown in jail. And I remembered Surveiller et Punir – Michel Foucault’s book that I told you three about, we had to read it my first semester in the master's program. And it got me thinking about the prison sociology class I did in undergrad. And then I figured… why not use my time in there to study prison from the inside?”

“Really? That is why you acted like this? The whole time we were in there together, I was trying to figure out if you were trustworthy!” Gabrielle cries out. Hayden blinks, apparently realizing he’s the only one in the group who hasn’t been incarcerated. “Now I find out you were being a nerd-spy!”

“Same,” Shane says. “Ilya and I talked about it a lot.”

“What is problem with this? Why not just tell us?” Ilya frowns. “Why be sneaky with notebooks, acting all suspicious?”

Jay sighs. “Ugh, right. I can see how that would look super sus. It’s about the method of data collection I chose. It’s called participant observation, it means the researcher is part of the environment they study. It can be tricky, cause you want to observe without affecting the environment too much, which is a lot easier said than done when you live in that environment fulltime. Anyway, I decided I would do covert observation, which means not telling anyone you’re doing research. I figured that would help make it less weird for other people; I didn’t want anyone to feel like lab rats, and I didn’t want others to treat me differently once they found out I was a gigantic nerd about the whole thing. I’m not saying it was the right decision, just that it’s the call I made.”

“Maybe I’m dumb but I don’t get why this is so much of a problem that it made you act suspicious in front of your friends,” Hayden states. Shane, Ilya, and Gabrielle nod in agreement.

“Okay so, the problem is that when you go out in the field and collect data that involves humans, you’re supposed to fill out this paperwork explaining why your process is ethical and what you’re going to do to keep participation anonymous and prevent harm. And then a committee looks at your plan and says if it’s good or if you need to tweak it. Except I was in prison so I didn’t do any of that. And I also didn’t ask the Ministry of Public Safety, which is considered bad form. Both of those things could really get me into trouble as a scholar, and I wanted to wait til I was out and found a prison specialist to supervise me before trying to figure everything out. I was also worried that I’d get in trouble as a prisoner, and that guards would confiscate my notes or try to censor me.”

“Ah, I see,” Gabrielle nods. “In that case I am very sorry for not trusting you.”

“Well, that’s kind of the quintessential prison experience, isn’t it? Not trusting anyone and being scared somebody’s gonna hurt you.” Jay shrugs. “I’m just glad you trusted me enough to hang out, it would have really sucked otherwise.”

“We trusted you cause we’re all gay too,” Shane chuckles.

Ilya gasps exaggeratedly. “Oh my god Hollander, is bisexual erasure!”

“Yeah, Hollander!” Gabrielle giggles.

“I thought you were pansexual,” Shane says drily, eyeing Gabrielle.

“I am,” she confirms. “How about you, Hayden? Are you also a friend of Dorothy?” Hayden looks like a deer in the headlights so she helps him out. “It’s an old-timey code to ask if you’re gay, bisexual, pansexual, asexual, trans…”

“Oh I’m... Straight?” Hayden squeaks.

“You do not seem so sure,” Ilya smirks.

“Well, I’ve never really questioned it?”

“Shane’s your teammate, right? Have you ever looked at his ass in the locker room or the showers?” Jay asks.

“Or during warm-up stretches!” Ilya adds.

“What? I...” Hayden looks flustered.

“Is good ass,” Ilya reasons.

“Yeah I know, but I…” Hayden continues.

“Not straight, then,” Ilya concludes. They all laugh and Hayden blushes, mumbling under his breath.

“To get back to trust, Jay, I’m still sorry,” Shane says. “I wish I could say differently but I only decided to trust you after you’d left. Because you made that statement after we were outed. You helped give us some level of plausible deniability with the MLH but especially with Russia. It was smart and generous of you.” Shane leans back into Ilya and pulls his boyfriend’s arms into a tighter squeeze around his waist. Ilya gets the memo and kisses Shane’s neck.

“I am sorry too, thank you for making statement,” Ilya says quietly. Shane can tell Ilya’s got a lot of feelings about that.

“Yeah, man, of course, no problem. You wanna know the craziest thing about the whole thing? ‘I’m just a sweaty person’ trended on Twitter for way too long after that interview!”

“I saw that!” Hayden exclaims excitedly. “It became a meme!”

“You deserve your reputation, you need to shower more often,” Gabrielle mock-chastises.

“You know what I regret about your secret spy life?” Ilya interjects. Shane suspects Ilya is redirecting so he doesn't have to confess to having started the rumor according to which Jay didn't shower for two months.

“What?” Jay answers, curious.

“If you had not been so strange about school, could have talked about your first project! Then we could have compared how police deal with leftist riots and queer Russian riots and hockey riots. Missed opportunity to yell about cops being bastards!”

“Yeah, ACAB,” Gabrielle approves. The entire reason she went to prison in the first place was because a police officer decided to be racist and transmisogynistic.

“Fuck yeah ACAB,” Shane agrees. He and Ilya spent five months in prison because police officers refused to take a woman seriously and neglected to pass her statement on to the prosecution.

“Oh. I guess. Though you still owe me a discussion about political theory, Ilya!”

“Yes well, we have lifetime to do this now.” Shane hears the smile in Ilya’s voice.

“Yeah, I guess we do,” Jay sighs contentedly. “I’ve got my master’s thesis to work on, these jocks have hockey, what about you Gabrielle?”

“Ah, I am talking to my previous workplace to see about getting my job back. It is by and for sex workers, so I know they will not be bad about me having been to prison. Other places would not be so good, my file has not been purged yet so any background check would flag me even if I do not have an actual record. And I am seeing a couple girls,” Gabrielle smirks. The group oh’s and ah’s and Gabrielle is about to add something when a mournful cry rings across the lake, startling  her into standing. “What the fuck was that?” she hisses, eyes scanning the dark expanse of water in the moonlight.

“It’s a loon,” Shane explains calmly. He’s been through this with Ilya on their first night in their new home. “It’s a bird that looks like a duck.”

“No, no, Shane, we agreed: new name for it is stupid Canadian wolfbird,” Ilya argues. “Is very evil creature with devilish red eyes.”

“Yeah well, we’re stupid Canadian jailbirds, I don’t think we get to complain about loons,” Shane retorts.

“Speak for yourselves, I’ve never been to prison,” Hayden says.

“And I am not stupid and not Canadian,” Ilya continues. “I am Russian in exile.”

Maybe one day Ilya will feel at home in Canada. For now, though, Shane rests in the knowledge that home is not just a country. It is two pairs of arms that found and clung to each other in the dark. It is the place he and Ilya started to build in a six-by-nine-foot prison cell. It is the people with whom they have found understanding and acceptance. It is the roots they have put down in a cozy cottage on a lake near Guaytown. And it is the unshakeable bond that will carry them through the years as they zigzag across a continent, bodies kept apart by hockey, souls tethered in spite of the distance.

Shane smiles and presses his cold nose into Ilya’s neck, inhaling the comforting scent of sports body wash on his boyfriend’s skin.

“Ya lyublyu tebya, Ilyushka,” Shane whispers.

“Je t’aime, Shane,” Ilya answers against his ear.

Shane kisses his boyfriend’s cheek, slightly cool in the September night air. He may not know what the future holds for he and Ilya, nor how the MLH will handle two allegedly queer athletes playing on rival teams. But he does know that a professional league has nothing on prison; it cannot bully them into denying who they are nor what they want. Shane will have his future with Ilya and one day they will be known as generational talents who broke barriers not only as hockey players, but also as the first out queer men in their league.

Shane settles further into his boyfriend’s arms, smiling contentedly. How the fuck did I get here?

Chapter End Notes

AAAAAAAHHHH IT’S DONE!!!! This is the longest piece of fiction I’ve written in 20 years (I was gonna say longest thing but no my dissertation is 3 times as long lol)… and I wrote it in 1 month. Thank you thank you thank you to everyone who read this story as I wrote it and engaged with it to help me stay on track!!! I genuinely could not have done it without you, my ADHD ass was ready to give up as soon as I got back to work after that initial vacation sprint.

I love you all but a special shoutout to noisettedelacoeur who wrote me such thoughtful affirmations every day for 2 weeks, to rottenloon204 who wrote entire essays under each chapter, to defreule who generously helped me out of the immigration law hole I dug myself into, and to pearplexed who helped me with Russian language and cultural references. And to everyone who left comments under most if not all chapters: jullabyreads, lulukittie, ronbin, HexistentialCrySis, dazedandconfused1922, elizabethlee91, mystrangedarkson, MyManyMuses, e77e, Carebear228, anbsmom, ABakersTrilogyHasFourBooks, laughingndancing, Melinda_Oz, 24loonatic81. (If I missed your username I am sorry please know I appreciate you just as much!! 400 comments was just a lot to sift through lol.)

Also to the 2 people who guessed what Jay’s deal was, GOOD JOB I am so impressed!! I did not leave a lot of clues but you caught them!!

If you enjoyed this story, check out my other ones! There’s social media/texting fics, chaotic crack that is frankly hilarious if I do say so myself, a role reversal for the CCM shower scene + 1410, a paramilitary AU… They’re overall more lighthearted than this one but still with BAMF Shane (being neurotic af doesn’t make you less of a baddie ok!), heartwarming moments, queer chosen family themes, and knowledge sharing (mostly sex, kink, and consent education)!

If you’re here for angst with a HE and hurt/comfort, hit that subscribe button: my next one will be a canon-divergent story where they’re actual-rivals-who-never-hooked-up and wind up in the same psych ward! In the same room, obviously 😉 This one will still be data-informed but largely based on my own and my friends’ experiences (I know it’s a saneist term but I still think it’s funny af that this fandom is full of diagnosed and undiagnosed loons). You can DM me on tHReads if you self-identify as crazy and have some anecdotes you think I could draw inspo from!

Chapter 15: Bibliography

Chapter Summary

References because I'm a nerd and also some of you asked!

I didn’t keep track of every single thing I read, and a lot of information just lives in my brain from doing my PhD on prisons, but this is a decent starting point if you want to learn more! Or if you’d like to use some of the research I did as a starting point for your own fics!

Table of Contents

• Bar Brawls
• On Prisons & Prison Theory
• My Personal Nightmare (Immigration Law)
• Queerness & Queer History in Russia
• Queerness in Haiti
• The NHL & Coming Into Conflict with the Law
• Sex Stuff

Bar Brawls

BBR Law. (November 28, 2025). Bar Fights and Assault Charges: When Self-Defence Claims Actually Work. https://www.bbrjlaw.com/bar-fights-and-assault-charges-when-self-defence-claims-actually-work/

On Prisons & Prison Theory

Chartrand, V. (2019). Unsettled Times: Indigenous Incarceration and the Links between Colonialism and the Penitentiary in Canada. Canadian Journal of Criminology and Criminal Justice, 61(3), 67–89. https://doi.org/10.3138/cjccj.2018-0029

Cloutier, R. M. (2017). PRÉVENTION, DÉPISTAGE ET TRAITEMENT DES ITSS EN MILIEU CARCÉRAL : Balises pour les CISSS, les CIUSSS et les organismes communautaires offrant des services de prévention, de dépistage et de traitement des ITSS en milieu carcéral. Gouvernement du Québec.

Davis, A. Y. (2003). Are Prisons Obsolete? Seven Stories Press.

• Short and accessible book! Excellent starting point to learn about abolitionism.

Foucault, M. (1975). Surveiller et punir: Naissance de la prison. Gallimard.

• Don’t read this it’s painful lol

Goffman, E. (1968). Asylums: Essays on the Social Situation of Mental Patients and Other Inmates. AldineTransaction.

Hamel, B. (2018). Homosexualité(s) masculine(s) et expériences carcérales: Une étude exploratoire. Université d’Ottawa / University of Ottawa.

Henry, L. (2022). Délivrez-nous de la prison Leclerc! (Écosociété).

Hutchison, J. (2023). “It Felt Like a Sense of Rape:” Women’s Experiences of Strip Searching in Prison as Gendered, Misogynoir, and Colonial Genocidal Sexual Violence [Dissertation]. Wilfrid Laurier University.

Loi sur le système correctionnel du Québec, § S-40.1 (2024).

Marcoux Rouleau, A. (2025). Quand loisir rime avec punir: Comprendre la prison pour femmes à partir des expériences de loisirs des personnes détenues. Université de Montréal.

Moreno, B. (January 31, 2026). How to Create Prison Tattoo Ink. https://www.wikihow.com/Create-Prison-Tattoo-Ink

Porter, L., & Calverley, D. (2011). Tendances de l'utilisation de la détention provisoire au Canada. https://www150.statcan.gc.ca/n1/pub/85-002-x/2011001/article/11440-fra.htm

Règlement d’application de la Loi sur le système correctionnel du Québec, § S-40.1, r.1 (2024). https://www.legisquebec.gouv.qc.ca/fr/pdf/rc/S-40.1,%20R.%201%20.pdf

Règlement Sur Les Programmes d’activités Pour Les Personnes Contrevenantes, § S-40.1, r. 3 (2024). https://www.legisquebec.gouv.qc.ca/fr/pdf/rc/S-40.1,%20R.%203%20.pdf

Ricordeau, G. (2019). Pour elles toutes : Femmes contre la prison. Lux éditeur.

Vanhamme, F. (2020). La détention provisoire au Canada : inflation, processus et contexte. Nouvelle revue de criminologie et de politique pénale, 1, p. 12-18. https://www.academia.edu/59363450/La_d%C3%A9tention_provisoire_au_Canada_inflation_processus_et_contexte

My Personal Nightmare (Immigration Law)

I’m not making these references pretty, my brain still hurts from the hours of research I did on this.

https://cliquezjustice.ca/vos-droits/criminalite-et-immigration-comprendre-les-consequences-legales

https://irb.gc.ca/en/legal-policy/policies/Pages/GuideDir09.aspx

https://irb.gc.ca/en/legal-policy/policies/Pages/GuideDir09.aspx#fn

https://www.canada.ca/en/immigration-refugees-citizenship/services/refugees/about-refugee-system/2slgbtqi-plus.html

https://www.canada.ca/en/immigration-refugees-citizenship/services/asylum/in-canada.html

https://www.canada.ca/en/immigration-refugees-citizenship/services/application/application-forms-guides/guide-5205-applying-permanent-residence-within-canada-protected-persons-convention-refugees.html

https://www.canada.ca/en/immigration-refugees-citizenship/services/refugees/about-refugee-system/2slgbtqi-plus.html

https://www.unhcr.org/about-unhcr/overview/1951-refugee-convention

Queerness & Queer History in Russia

I swear to God I spent hours scouring PinkNews and skim-reading media coverage of all the queer news coming out of Russia in 2005-2009.

Anmeghichean, M. (2006). Moscow Pride March, 27 May 2006: Detailed Account of the Events. Equality for lesbian, gay, bisexual and transgender people in Europe. https://archiv.hosiwien.at/img/pdf/moskau-bericht_ilga.pdf

Hick, J. (2008). East/West: Sex & Politics [Documentary]. Running time 1 hour 37 minutes. https://www.imdb.com/title/tt1176103/

Kochetkov, I. P., & Kirichenko, X. (2009). The Situation of Lesbians, Gays, Bisexuals, and Transgender People in the Russian Federation, 2008. Russian LGBT Network. http://bibliotheque.centrelgbtparis.org/documents_electroniques/Russia%20report%20WEB-9.pdf

PinkNews. (April 4, 2006). Moldovan is “national hero” for gay journalist murder. https://www.thepinknews.com/2006/04/04/moldovan-is-national-hero-for-gay-journalist-murder/

PinkNews. (May 28, 2006). Moscow pride- an eye witness account. https://www.thepinknews.com/2006/05/28/moscow-pride-an-eye-witness-account/

Aulakh, R., & Balkissoon, D. (October 23, 2009). From Russia, to get married. Toronto Star. https://www.thestar.com/news/gta/from-russia-to-get-married/article_815083c8-fc5b-57f2-b61d-718a35a0429c.html

UN Human Rights Committee. (November 24, 2009). Concluding observations of the Human Rights Committee : Russian Federation. https://digitallibrary.un.org/record/672737?ln=en&v=pdf

Queerness in Haiti

The comment about a lack of non-derogatory queer vocabulary was based on something a friend told me 10 years ago. I did check though lol; this is the only reference I saved.

Moscas de Colores. (n.d.) Gay Dictionary : Haitian. https://www.moscasdecolores.com/en/gay-dictionary/haitian

The NHL & Coming Into Conflict with the Law

Elite Prospects. (n.d.). NHL Entry Level Contract: How Rookie Deals Work. https://www.eliteprospects.com/page/nhl-entry-level-contract-how-rookie-deals-work

Jones, W. (n.d.). NHL waiver rules: The easy to understand guide. Hockey Answered. https://hockeyanswered.com/waivers-in-the-nhl/

NHLPA. (n.d.). The NHL/NHLPA Collective Bargaining Agreement. https://www.nhlpa.com/cba/

• I don’t even know how long I spent going through 500 pages of sports legalese.

[Sorry idk the author, the paywall remover stopped working]. (2018). What can the NHL do when a player is charged with a crime? The Athletic. https://www.nytimes.com/athletic/5229999/2024/01/30/canada-world-juniors-2018-players-criminal-charges-nhl/Mc

Sex Stuff

I couldn’t let you go without the proper, original reference on muffing hahaha.

Bellwether, M. (2010). Fucking Trans Women Zine. https://www.mirabellwether.com/about/

LAST THING, DON’T DO LIKE SHANE AND ILYA, USE REAL FUCKING LUBE!!! The rectum does NOT self-lubricate, and you have to work to get it to relax and stretch otherwise things will tear and the person will bleed and they’ll be in pain and it will be very unsexy. This requires the proper tools for the job!!!

1. Saliva offers barely any lubrication, definitely not nearly enough to use on its own for anal. Using it also comes with higher risk of spreading STIs.
2. Oils are not always safe to put up one’s ass (looking at you, massage oil). It will also make latex condoms more prone to breaking.
3. There are 3 main types of lube:
   1. Silicone-based is often considered the best for anal as it can be used with condoms and the body doesn’t absorb it too fast. Fair warning though, put an old towel down so you don’t stain your bedding.
   2. Water-based works too and is safe with condoms, but the body will absorb it faster; you may need to reapply especially for anal.
   3. Oil-based will lubricate well for anal but can destroy condoms too.