Rating:

Teen And Up Audiences

Archive Warning:

Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings

Category:

M/M

Fandoms:

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

Relationship:

Shane Hollander/Ilya Rozanov

Characters:

Ilya Rozanov, Shane Hollander

Additional Tags:

sad ilya, Happy Ilya, Ilya is great with kids, he has always looked for sunrise, he will give excellent interviews and let journalists win many awards for their hard hitting questions, marly do not corrupt the children, why is he in the woods, he is russian not barbaric

Language:

English

Stats:

Published: 2026-02-01 Words: 6,036 Chapters: 1/1

the love of someone broken

Summary

Ilya has spent his life as a recovering broken child, on a mission to make sure no child he encounters through the years will ever feel the way he did.

Notes

His tie was too tight, his pants too loose, his hands too cold. He sat on the glossy wooden pew that had seen a century or more of people sitting on it and had the wear and scuff marks to account for it. His feet kicked at the stone floor and he tried not to wince as the toe box on his right foot came back with a scratch. 

“Ilya.” His father hissed from his left, the back of his hand swatting into his stomach with just the right amount of force that made Ilya’s breath explode from his lungs. 

“Sorry.” He whispered, placing both of his feet firmly on the worn stone. 

He stared ahead, unblinking, his eyes taking in the gilded altar, portraits painted of saints and deities that Ilya had never tried very hard to memorize. He was young but he could appreciate how beautiful the church was. He spent his Sunday mornings here most weeks, only missing service when hockey or sickness kept him away. 

Mostly just hockey. 

Sickness could be prayed away his mother always told him when he tried to sleep in just a few minutes longer. 

His mother. 

His lip wobbled over his teeth and he pinched the inside of his wrist to keep himself to fight back the tears that welled in his eyes. Mama. His eyes flicked away from gold to wood, portraits of saints to mama. She was laid so serenely, surrounded by ivory silk and adorned with a paper crown. She looked so happy in death in the same way that she looked so sad in life. 

Ilya had stood in front of her casket, his fingers clasped over her hands, cold, so cold, and he cried. He was alone in the sanctuary, his father and brother standing in front of the iconostasis and greeting mourners gathering for the service. He knew his time uninterrupted was slipping away from him like sands in a glass and he was trying to commit her face to his memory. 

He’d pressed a coin to her hand for her afterlife’s journey and wondered idly how that worked. 

“Mama,” he’d whispered brokenly, bending at the waist and resting his chin on the wooden lip of the casket. “I’m sorry you were so sad. Papa says it was an accident.” He hummed, his forefinger tapping against the cool skin of the back of her hand. “I will make you happy, mama.” He told her, his finger dancing up her arm. “You will be so proud.” 

Muffled voices had Ilya straightening up and glancing over his shoulder before going back to his mom. Gold glinted under her white dress, a small peek, a thread of gold not out of place, but where it always rested. He took a deep breath and opened his ears to listen to people as they readied to enter the nave. 

“For you, mama.” He whispered, his fingers dancing over the chain around her neck and finding the clasp. It was awkward and clumsy but he slipped the necklace off, his fingers pinching her crucifix to keep it from tumbling into the silk pillow of her eternal bed. “I love you.”

He pocketed the chain and crucifix before taking a step back, and not a moment too soon because his father’s hand clasped harshly onto his shoulder. 

He had taken his place next to his father, his mother’s father on his other side. Ilya’s dad and grandfather were much too close in age and not for the first time he wondered why his grandfather let his mother marry a man so cruel, who made her so sad, who made her have an accident. 

Orthodox funerals were always long. Ilya had only been to two—three, now, with his mother—and had always found himself bored to tears and relying on typical childlike distraction tactics to pass the time; counting candles, playing I Spy with the other boys he sat with in hushed whispers in the back pews, folding service pamphlets into poor paper cranes, making funny faces to make his friends laugh as they recited their prayers. Now that it was his mother’s funeral, Ilya had to sit still, had to listen, had to pay attention and the service seemed to go on, and on, and on and his entire body and soul felt numb from the experience—

A child wailed from somewhere behind him and on instinct he turned to find the sound. His fathers hand hit against his stomach, more his side, again, but it didn’t deter him from looking for the child. 

She was fussing in her mother’s arms, blonde hair with bangs cut in a straight line over her forehead and her chubby cheeks were red and stained with tears that Ilya knew were not for his mother but more likely caused by the same boredom he was experiencing. He also wished he could cry out and make a scene. 

“Ilya.” His grandfather said in a chiding voice, his hand pressing gently on the back of his neck. “Turn.” 

Ilya knew his distraction was coming to a close as the mom stood, excusing herself and her child who continued to wail but had found Ilya’s face in the sea of heads that were still turned forward in their seats, focused on the service but grumbling with annoyance under their breath. 

Ilya couldn’t help himself from sticking his tongue out and squeezing his face into a foolish position. Her crying stuttered to a slow stop. She smiled, half toothless, mostly gums, and the tear stains on her cheek glowed under the candles and stained glass. 

She laughed and Ilya smiled. 

“Ilya.” His father snapped, the warning clear and final. 

He turned back around. 

He often bought himself a first class seat on commercial flights. He was a tall, relatively famous man and he could always use the extra legroom, comfier seats and secluded lounges. 

He was more easily recognized flying in and out of Logan, usually due to his face smiling next to the pink and orange Dunkin logo throughout the airport, or in Moscow where he was perhaps more famous than in North America. Being in an airport terminal elsewhere, he could just be recognized in a wow, look at that guy kind of way. Good looking, tall, fit but in a way that was just normal. 

He liked that. He enjoyed pushing away the persona he’d adapted since he was still in junior hockey and he had KHL and NHL scouts knocking at his door. 

He sat at the gate in Las Vegas, his hoodie pulled over his head and his wayfarers shielding his eyes from the desert sun shining through the floor to ceiling window that overlooked the tarmac. He’d been negligent in securing a first class, business or even premium economy ticket after the NHL awards, seemingly forgetting that every other athlete, tall or otherwise, would want the extra legroom. 

It was fine, Ilya could deal with it. He’d at least gotten an exit row and was mentally preparing himself for the responsibilities that accompanied such a seat row. He could follow directions, he  was strong and had extreme mobility. He could clear obstructions up to, and including, 250 defensemen with blades strapped to their feet. 

He was an excellent choice for an exit row steward. 

Nevermind that his mind was replaying every moment of the previous night. His breakdown in the bathroom, the six photos he’d already saved into a Boring folder on his phone, locked with a passcode that anyone paying attention would be able to guess, 8124. The image of Hollander stroking his own skin, curling his fingers around his throat and scraping down his stomach, his abdomen clenching in anticipation before he finally fisted his—

“Sorry. I’m sorry.” A woman’s voice broke the memory playing in Ilya’s mind. 

He startled a bit, his chin tilting up as he watched a woman, holding her baby, accidentally drop her bag on Ilya’s foot. “Is ok.” He told her, shifting his foot out from under the bag. 

He glanced around, the rows of seats full around him, the seemingly only empty seat left to his left. 

Her baby, Ilya guessed around one, dozed lazily against her shoulder, seemingly unbothered by being jostled by his mother. “It’s his first time flying.” She said, her hand cradling the back of his head to support him as she shifted into the seat. “I’m really nervous.”

“Ah.” Ilya nodded, thankful his sunglasses covered the fondness in his eyes from the sight of the baby’s chubby cheek bunched against his mom’s shoulder. 

“God, I didn’t expect this flight to be sold out.” She babbled, her leg twitching nervously. “I mean, I guess Vegas is always busy. So that’s dumb of me, I guess, in hindsight.”

“Mm.” Ilya agreed, his thoughts trying to slip back to Hollander, kneeling on the bed and nuzzling the front of his—

“You think it was a big bachelor trip weekend? Everyone is so tall.”

“Mm, no. NHL awards last night.”

“Oh.” He heard her voice drop in confusion. “What is the NHL?”

Ilya barked out a sudden laugh, the suddenness of it shocking the little boy’s eyes open in surprise. “Sorry, mishka. Sh, is ok. Did not mean to scare you.” He told the boy gently. “Hockey. Is hockey awards last night.” 

“Oh! Oh. Right. Sorry, sorry. I, uh, I obviously don’t watch hockey. Or sports. I mean, I guess I kind of watch the Super Bowl? Does it count as watching if I’m just there for the food? And halftime?”

“Hm, yes, I think. Probably.” 

Ilya was sad to see the memory of Hollander, face down and ass up, fade to the back of his mind now that it was quite clear that this woman and her baby were so nervous about flying that she’d be babbling for the entirety of boarding. 

“Do you watch hockey?” She asked in between shushing and cooing at her son to settle him from the shock of Ilya’s laughter. 

“Ah, yes.” He nodded, reaching up and pushing sunglasses up his forehead to rest at the top of his head, pushing curls away from his face. 

“What’s your favorite team? I only know, hm, is it Chicago wings or something?”

“Boston.” Ilya said. “Boston is my team. Best in league.”

She nodded, her eyes dropping to the tracksuit jacket he was wearing, black with gold thread and the Bears logo placed above his heart. “Oh. Yeah. I see that you’re a fan.”

Ilya grinned. “Biggest fan.” He said, happily. “Boston is great team. Won the Cup this year.”

“Is that like… the main prize? What kind of cup is it? Because they just, like, what? Get a glass that says “winner”? Is that it?”

Ilya thought that maybe this was the best moment of his entire life. “Is big cup. Very, ah, prestigious. Hard to win. Boston had to work very hard for it.” 

“Cool, cool.” She grew quiet for a while as the intercom came alive to announce boarding groups. “Okay. Well, that’s me. Kids and family boarding. Cool. Nice to meet you. Oh, shit, I didn’t even ask your name. I’m Melanie, this is Elliot.”

“Da. Ilya.”

He watched Melanie and Elliot move towards the desk, Elliot’s eyes peering at him over his mom’s shoulder. He waved, his fingers curling into his palm in quick succession. The gummy baby smile made Ilya smile larger and even larger still when Elliot buried his face into his mom’s shoulder. 

When they disappeared down the tunnel, Ilya was a bit morose. It was nice to talk to people who didn’t know him or anything about his job, his responsibilities. It so rarely happened, especially now that he had finally won his first Cup. 

Ilya didn’t know whose grand fucking idea it was to host a team and family party at his penthouse (his) as a final hurrah to the season and the last Stanley Cup event as a team, but  wished they’d (he’d) put more thought into the mess that forty plus people would leave behind. 

The wall of windows was open allowing people to flow in and out of his living room and onto the terrace. The glass firepit was lit and Ilya had enough of the heat radiating from that and the swarm of bodies so he began collecting red plastic cups and bottles from various surfaces. He wasn’t actually going to clean up, he’d had the foresight to book housekeeping during the afternoon tomorrow, but he’d like to actually have some semblance of order in the meantime. 

“… I’m just saying, I know playoffs and the Cup run had everyone so busy, but it’s like he doesn’t even want to bond with Isaiah.” 

Ilya’s eyebrows perked up at the conversation and moved more slowly to ensure the clinks of beer bottles didn’t overpower too many words. 

“… and his mom has been wicked great. She stayed with us, well, me, really, after I gave birth…” 

Ilya sat his bounty down on the counter beside the stove. As he gathered more bottles from the island, he focused on the group of women congregating on his sofa. There was a baby in the arms of the woman, the baby nestled against her chest, head propped on her shoulder and a dribble of spit up dripping onto the burp cloth. He smiled at the baby before his eyes flicked up to catch the gaze of Adrienne, Marleau’s long time girlfriend, flinch with disdain.

“… he wasn’t planned but we discussed if we should get rid of him…”

“Hey! Stacie!” Ilya’s eyes and the eyes of all the women on his couch moved to the doorway to the terrace where Andrew Feller, a 3rd line left wing, stood, gesturing wildly. “Bring Iz out here!”

“It’s too sunny, Andy.” Stacie said in a level voice that even Ilya, perpetual bachelor that he was, knew meant nothing good. 

“It’s fine!” Feller insisted, rolling his eyes and moving across Ilya’s living room, his hands outstretched. 

Ilya couldn’t see Stacie’s face, but he could see Adrienne’s. Her mouth snarled and nose scrunched as she took in the backside of Feller as he all but snatched the baby from Stacie, even as she made a sound of protest. 

“Andy, really, he can’t go outside.” 

“Five minutes isn’t gonna kill him, Stac, god. You’re such a nag.” 

Ilya abandoned his housekeeping. He left scattered treasures behind and stepped around the kitchen island and several people he half knew as WAGs, a few more he knew from the equipment room and office, a tight smile on his face. 

“I got this, da?” Ilya said, holding his hand out to Stacie as she pushed herself up from the couch to retrieve her baby from his father. “Baby does not go outside. I understand this.” 

“… is such a fucking bitch, y’know?” Feller was saying to a third like defenseman rookie. “Like, I’m this kid’s dad. I can do whatever—“

“Feller!” Ilya called as he slid beside him, his eye squinting up at the sun that was glazing overhead. “Is your son?” 

“Yeah, Cap. He’s gonna be the greatest hockey player. This is Isaiah.” 

“Ah, greatest player, yes? Must take after Uncle Ilya.” He jibed, angling his body just enough to cause his shadow to cover most of the baby from the sun. 

“Whoa! He’s gonna take after me. What the fuck?”

“Thought you said he would be the greatest?” He asked rhetorically, eyebrows raising to his hairline. “Am I not the greatest? I am MVP, Fuller.” 

“Oh, fuck off, Roz. You’re so full of shit.” Fuller’s nose scrunched as the words fell out of his mouth. “Ugh, so is his diaper. Gross. Stacie!” He called out, barely turning his head back towards the terrace door. “He needs to be changed!”

“You do not know how to change diaper, Fuller? As hard for you as playing hockey?” 

“Fuck you, Rozanov. I’m not changing diapers. That’s Stacie’s job.”

“Ah.” Ilya tutted, reaching his arms out for Isaiah and seemingly happy to be rid of the tiny human with the dirty diaper, Fuller handed him over. “Is embarrassing to not change your kid’s diaper.”

Ilya curled his hand over the back of Isaiah’s head as he stepped past Fuller and back into the living room. His eyes found Stacie rifling through discarded bags and shoes by the front door, successfully finding her diaper bag. 

“Thank you, Ilya. I’ve got it. Is there somewhere I can change him?“

“No, no. This is bag, yes? I will do it.” 

“No, you really don’t have to. I can—“

“Isaiah and I must discuss hockey. Is man things, you understand, da? Must prepare him for being best hockey player of all.” 

“Are you sure? I don’t want to… I mean… you have guests—“

“Isaiah is guest of honor. I will be best host. Bag, please.” 

Stacie slid the strap of her diaper bag onto Ilya’s free shoulder. “Thank you.” 

“Is nothing.” He replied, turning away from her with a wink. 

His hand pat gently against Isaiah’s back as he maneuvered around teammates as he made his way to his bedroom. He placed him gently on the blanket towards the foot of his bed and gently set the diaper bag to the side. 

“You remind me of my niece. Ekaterina. Such pretty eyes.” Ilya told him, a hand on Isaiah’s belly while the other rifled through the supplies. “She is small, like you, but older.” 

Isaiah gurgled, his wide brown eyes staring up at Ilya with wonder, his arms raised in the air, tiny fists clenched and his legs kicking. 

“Ah, you will be enforcer, da?” Ilya cooed. “Very important to not tuck thumbs, priyatel.” He chided, gently forcing Isaiah’s thumbs free from his tiny fists. “Your dad is very dumb. Not good at giving you rules of fighting. How will you be best hockey player if you cannot throw good punch?”

Baby gurgles had a way of slipping beneath Ilya’s exterior and settling deep in his bones. The soft, trusting coos of nonsensical language slipped over him and he felt fluent. If he was a man that thought of such things, he’d be able to identify that it was the ability to give a child a safe adult that he hadn’t had for himself since his mother died. 

“You will be kind like your mama, strong like Uncle Ilya. You will not be dumb like your dad.” Ilya said to Isaiah as he changed the diaper, brown eyes watching the glinting gold of his crucifix and grabbing for it. “Ah, you like gold? Perfect. You will be Olympic Gold winner, da? Fit right in.”

“Everything okay in here?”

Ilya finished buttoning Isaiah back into his onesie and scooped him from the foot of the bed, cradling him against his chest. His crucifix was immediately encased in a chubby baby fist. “Yes. We were just talking about Olympic training.”

“Jesus, Ilya.” Stacie laughed, crossing the room and removing Ilya’s necklace from Isaiah’s mouth. “He’s only four months old.”

“This is true. We are very behind. Should have started four months ago.” He agreed morosely, a solemn, dramatic sigh escaping him. “Is ok. We can fix.” 

She took her baby from Ilya and he brushed away the sudden pang of loss. “Thank you for changing him. You didn’t have to.”

“Is nothing.” He waved the thought away with his hand. “You can do better than Fuller. He is idiot. Bad dad.” 

She smiled, a bit sadly Ilya noticed, her hand smoothing over Isaiah’s back. “He’s not so bad.”

“Bad hockey player, then. No discipline. Very slow.” He hummed, rocking back on his feet. “Bad hand-eye coordination. Is why he cannot change diaper, hm?” Ilya didn’t mean to cause Stacie’s face to flush, whether anger or embarrassment, he wasn’t sure. “Ah. Sorry.”

She was quiet, rocking her baby in her arms and shifting back and forth on her feet. “It is pretty shitty that his dad’s coworker changed his diaper before his own dad, isn’t it?”

Ilya grimaced a smile, tilting his head. “Da.” 

“I just never expected to be here. I’m always alone and I feel like I have two kids. Shit, sorry, I shouldn’t be telling you this.” 

“Is better to be alone than to be lonely with someone, yes?”

“Stacie! Where are you?”

Ilya watched her eyes tighten. She inhaled a deep breath and shifted slightly. “In here.”

“Look, I want to put Iz in the Cup for a photo—oh. Roz. What are you doing?”

“I was telling Stacie that you are bad hockey player and dad.” 

“Oh, fuck you. You’re such a dick, man. Was he bothering you, Stacie?”

“No, we’re good here. He was just giving me some advice.”

Ilya smiled wanly as he met her eyes once more before she turned and followed her boyfriend from his bedroom, Isaiah's brown eyes peeking over her shoulder at him. 

Ilya was sweating, sore and tired. Practice had been grueling and terrible after coming off what was, hopefully, a brief away game losing streak. He was happy to be back in the training arena, the smell of the familiar rink a balm to his weary soul. 

He’d put on his blade guards first, and had not waited for anyone else on the team to join him. Most were still shooting shit and pucks on the ice for easier clean up and he felt like being Captain freed him of that responsibility. For today, at least. He wanted to change out, shower, and go the fuck home. 

He wanted to lay in his bed and wait for Shane to be done with his day so he could lay there and stare at the screen as Shane moved about his nightly habits. 

Ilya was glad that he had an excellent cellphone plan, because they spent hours on the phone together, their quality time together while three hundred miles apart. He was more than ready to have his final season in Boston come to an end. 

Not because he disliked the team, or really wanted to leave his teammates, of course. If he could cherry pick his favorites and bring them with him, he would. It was just time to make a step forward towards the life he wanted to live. 

With Shane Hollander. In Canada. As soon as possible. 

“No! What is this! Star journalists!” Ilya called out as he rounded the edge of the rink and saw two Bear cubs, Carmichael’s daughters, holding the soft, fluffy microphone that their social media manager, Natalie, used to interview players. 

“Ilya!” Maggie called happily, his name sounding more like Eel-yuh than anything. It was perfect. “We have a question for you!”

“For me? Of course. I will give you exclusive interview. You will win many prizes.” He declared, stopping in front of Maggie and Georgia, squatting precariously on his skates, and still heads and shoulders above them. “Ask me, medvezhata.” 

“Did you go swimming in the hotel pool?” Georgia asked, the heel of her palm pressing her hat up her forehead to get it out of her eyes. 

Ilya’s cheeks hurt from the smile that erupted over his mouth. “But of course!” He said loudly. “I am fish! I am mermaid!”

The giggles of the two little cubs warmed Ilya’s heart further into a puddle of goo. He pulled his sweaty practice helmet off his head and swiped Georgia’s little beanie from her head, finding the bear ears sewn onto the top of it endearing and he simply had to have it. He pulled it onto his mop of sweaty curls and gently placed his helmet over her dead. “Ah, is much better on you, Georgie.” He told her, leaning his forehead against hers and doing a gentle tap like she was a player. 

“Marly!” Maggie called as Marleau came lumbering out of the rink. “We have a question!”

“Ah, give Marly easy one, Maggie! He is simple in head!” 

“Fu—I mean, uh, thanks, Roz.” 

Ilya cackled and dropped to his ass in between his two pint sized best friends. 

Maggie’s brow furrowed in thought and she shared a sideways glance with her sister. “Marly, do you like chips?”

“Hell yeah! Shit! I mean—“

Ilya’s hands shot out and covered an ear on Maggie and the side of his helmet on Georgia. “Marly, do not corrupt the children!”

He grimaced and Ilya took great satisfaction in the fact he wouldn’t toss him the middle finger while the social media camera was running. “See ya later, Mags, Georgie. Rozanov.” 

“Ah, look, look! Ask Dubek how many teeth he has lost.”

“Dub! Dub! How many teeth do you have?” Georgia called out as the goaltender approached. 

He laughed, his face red from the brisk air of the rink, and narrowed his eyes at Ilya on the floor between the two girls with a knowing smirk. He knew what his captain wanted. Dubek tucked his glove under his arm and put his fingers into his mouth, pulling out a set of almost complete dentures. 

“Whoa!” Maggie gasped. “Do you ever put a straw between your teeth to drink chocolate milk, Dub?”

He pushed his purchased teeth back into his mouth. “No, but I’m definitely gonna do that now. Wicked idea, kid!”

Ilya was gleeful as more players began coming out at a steadier pace. He knew he was running behind on his own schedule to go home and FaceTime with his boyfriend, but this was fun. He loved when the social media team brought in player’s kids to do content. He enjoyed tormenting his players with the happy tones of childhood innocence. 

“Ask Connors why he has bad edge control.” “Ask St-Simon why he always kisses his stick tape roll.” “Ask Connors how his pet rock is doing.” “You should ask Feller if he’s ever changed a diaper!” “Maybe we should ask Sebbin if his locker is site of new Big Dig!”

Ilya stayed with the girls through the rest of the roster’s questions, chirping and laughing with delight when the girls took his question propositions seriously. They’d asked good ones too, cute ones that would definitely make whatever post Natalie had in mind. 

“Thank you for letting me intern. You are best journalists I have ever been asked questions by.” Ilya crowed, wrapping his arms around their shoulders and smooshing them into his arms for a large huge, a kiss smacked loudly against Maggie’s temple and then against the visor on his own helmet, still resting off-kilter on Georgia’s head. 

He tugged the beanie off his head, the cotton fabric leaving his head in a blur of static electricity. “For you, mishka.” He said, holding her hat back. 

“You keep it! Mom will make me another one.”

Ilya’s already liquified heart melted further. “For me?” He asked, clutching the hat to his chest. “Then this for you. Even trade, mishka.” He said, tapping the crown of the helmet. “Best. Trade. Ever.” 

He was very excited to go home and call his boyfriend and show him the greatest gift he’d ever received. 

Ilya did not spend much time outdoors. Sure, he went for walks, runs, hikes. He liked swimming in the lake at the cottage, the jet skis. He had even, against his better Russian judgement, walked the sandbars at Rock Harbor while the tide was low. But Ilya did not spend much time outdoors.

And, really, neither did Shane. 

So he wasn’t quite sure how they’d (he’d!) found himself in the predicament of being in the middle of the Canadian wilderness with two of the Pike children, searching for sticks to skewer marshmallows and wood to turn into fire while his fiancé and Pike went about setting up tents. 

To sleep in. 

On the ground. 

In the woods. 

In Canada. 

On purpose. 

Even still, Ruby and Jade were chaos demons and he loved their mother and knew she needed to take a breather to settle Arthur and Amber after they’d all spent hours in cars driving to this campsite. 

Again. On purpose. 

“That isn’t a good stick, Jade.” Ruby sassed, slapping it out of her sister’s hand. 

“That. Was. Rude!” Jade snapped, stomping her foot and swinging her arm out to punch her sister. 

“Nyet! Nyet!” Ilya tisked, closing his hand around Jade’s, surprisingly well formed, fist. “We only fight on ice, da? Ah, no! We do not do that, either!” 

Ruby’s tongue made a quick retreat into her mouth, her face dropping into a false picture perfect image of innocence. Ilya squeezed Jade’s fist lightly in a reminder to not lay her sister out. He definitely knew she was capable of it. 

Must get that skill from her mother. 

“We will get lots of branches.” Ilya told them. “So many. Everyone gets twenty sticks!”

“That’s so many, Uncle Ilya.”

“Ah. You are not up to challenge? I understand. Very hard job it is to get that many. I will suffer alone, I suppose.” He sighed, stepping forward a few steps, bending down and plucking a terrible for roasting marshmallows stick. 

“No! We can do it!” 

“Are you sure? I do not want to disappoint Uncle Shane. He needs very particular stick.” 

“I’m gonna find it!”

“No! I’m gonna get it for Uncle Shane!”

“No!”

“Nyet! Not far, Ruby! Jade, watch it!”

Ilya blew out a heavy breath that made a curl, damp from the fucking Canadian wilderness humidity, float up and fall back down over his forehead. This was a mostly useless task, designed to give Shane and Pike time to figure out how the hell to stake a tent and Jackie time to decompress, because Ilya had purchased marshmallow skewers online because he knew he didn’t want to eat sugar off a stick from the ground of the woods. 

He was Russian, not barbaric. 

There were a few bundles of firewood in the back of Shane’s jeep because Ilya had refused to put it in his Mercedes. Besides, as he’d chirped at Shane, it’s a perfectly good car. Good enough for snow, good enough for going into the woods. 

He was able to keep the Pike twins occupied and arms full of mossy, misshapen sticks. Busy hands kept punches from being thrown. 

“How’d it go?” Shane asked as Ilya and the girls emerged from the tree line, their arms full of bounty. “Wow!” He praised Jade and Ruby as they dropped the sticks at his feet. 

“Which one are you going to use, Uncle Shane?”

“What?” Shane asked, his eyes flicking from the pile of twigs to the girls and then, finally, to Ilya’s face. “What do you mean? Use for what?”

“For marshmallows, of course, lyubimyy moy.” Ilya grinned, his eyebrows raising to his hairline, glee radiating from his body. 

“I, uh, hm. Marshmallows. Right. Um…” Shane floundered, helplessly, glancing between the twins and his fiancé. “I’ll choose after dinner, okay?”

“Okay!” Jade and Ruby agreed, easier than anything else they’d agreed on yet, and bounced off towards their mother. 

“What the fuck, Ilya?” Shane hissed. 

Ilya only grinned wider, his hands reaching out for Shane’s hips, pulling him flush against him. “You will have, da? Cannot disappoint Jade and Ruby. They work very hard to find Uncle Shane the perfect stick.” He said, jutting his hips against his almost-husband like a punctuation point. 

“I fucking hate you.” He whispered without bite, tilting his head up to catch Ilya in a sugary sweet kiss. 

“Mm, I do not think this to be true.” 

Ilya was at a loss. 

His hand was gripped tightly by a woman in a hospital bed, and Shane was in the exact same position across from him. They stared at each other, shock and awe, chaos and panic. 

“Fuck. We’re really doing this.” Shane whispered, hardly being heard over the grunting scream of the woman between them. 

“Bit late now to back out.” The doctor said from between the woman’s legs. “We have a head!”

“A head.” He echoed in awe. “Our baby has a head, lyubimyy moy.”

A laugh escaped Shane before a wince followed as their surrogate clutched harder down on their hands. Fuck, she was strong. 

And maybe a little crazy to willingly sign up to give birth to an athlete’s baby. 

“One more push, Samantha! Just need to get those shoulders out. You’re doing so good!” 

“So good.” Ilya praised, tears that Russians didn’t cry welling in his eyes and spilling over his cheeks. 

She grunted in response, her fingers clenching around theirs so tightly that her knuckles were white compared to the red tint of exertion that covered the rest of her. 

“Shane, Ilya, are you ready to meet your son?”

Samantha fell to the bed, breathless, sweaty and the strongest woman Ilya thought he’d ever met. Her hands loosened and Ilya bent over and kissed her forehead, unable at the moment to vocally thank her in any words. English, Russian even, was too hard. 

The tiny wail from tinier lungs stole their attention away from her and across the room. Nurses crowded, cooing and measuring. 

“Is he ok?” Ilya asked, a pang of worry that something had gone wrong ricocheting through him. “Is he…?”

“We talked about skin to skin,” the nurse wrapping their baby said to them, “take your shirts off, dads.” 

Ilya grabbed the neck of his sweater and had it up and over his head within seconds. He watched Shane remove his methodically, if a bit quicker than usual, folding it and setting it on the chair arm beside the bed. Ilya tossed his clothing on top. 

“Sit, sit.” One of the nurses instructed. 

Shane and Ilya sat in the double chair, the entirety of their sides touching as they prepared to meet their baby for the first time. He was swaddled loosely in muslin, red faced and angry. 

“You go first.” Shane whispered, the back of his hand wiping his own tears away from his cheek. 

Ilya held his arms out, the nurse gently placing him against his chest and keeping the blanket draped over him on the outside, allowing Ilya’s skin, his heartbeat, sink into his son’s. “Wow.” He breathed, his word breaking in the middle. 

Shane’s chin tucked into Ilya’s shoulder, his arm sliding under the blanket and closing around Ilya’s arms and their son. Ilya felt the hot tears drip onto his collarbone and felt like his heart couldn’t hold any more love than it did in this moment for his family. 

“Welcome to the world.” Ilya whispered, turning his head slightly to press a kiss to Shane’s temple. “You are so loved, so wanted, so perfect, moy syn.” 

“God,” Shane whispered against Ilya’s shoulder, “we are dads. This is fu—this is crazy. Oh my god.” 

“This is everything I’ve ever wanted, lyubimyy moy. Everything. You are perfect. Our son is perfect.” 

“And what is baby’s name?” A nurse asked, a piece of paper and a pen in her hand. “Have we decided?”

Ilya and Shane both leaned their heads away from the other, their eyes finalizing the conversation that had already been decided with words. 

“Anatoly.” Shane told her softly, spelling it out. 

“So handsome. What does it mean?”

Ilya cleared his throat, unable to tear his eyes away from Anatoly tucked in his arms, pressed against his skin. “Sunrise.” 

Because that’s what he was: the sunrise after an infinite dark night. Dawn had broken and with it came the light of his life. 

When they had decided that they were ready to start their family, they’d endlessly discussed the options that were available to them. Fostering, adoption, surrogacy. They had decided on surrogacy and Ilya had been adamant that their baby would be Shane’s—he wanted, needed, the sun to continue to rise with more of his beloved in the world. 

He needed his children to have the freckles that had captivated him and changed his life. 

He also really wanted to see if being boring was genetic. 

“Anatoly David Rozanov-Hollander, welcome home. Your grandparents are excited to meet you.” Ilya told his son. “I just hope you do not get your dad’s weak backhand.”

“Weak backhand.” Shane scoffed, lightly biting down on Ilya’s shoulder playfully.