Rating:

Teen And Up Audiences

Archive Warning:

No Archive Warnings Apply

Category:

M/M

Fandoms:

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

Relationships:

Ilya Rozanov & Irina Rozanova, Shane Hollander/Ilya Rozanov

Characters:

Ilya Rozanov, Shane Hollander, Grigori Rozanov, Yuna Hollander

Additional Tags:

Irina Rozanova Haunts the Narrative, Ilya Rozanov Needs A Hug, Ilya Rozanov Misses Irina Rozanova, Ilya Rozanov Deserves Nice Things, Ilya Rozanov Loves Shane Hollander, Grief/Mourning, Bad Parent Grigori Rozanov, Superstition, POV Ilya Rozanov, Shane Hollander/Ilya Rozanov in Love, Spoilers for Book 6: The Long Game (Game Changers), Book 2: Heated Rivalry (Game Changers), Post-Book 2: Heated Rivalry (Game Changers), Ilya Rozanov Character Study, Shane Hollander Loves Ilya Rozanov

Language:

English

Stats:

Published: 2026-06-21 Words: 9,262 Chapters: 1/1

i circle you

Summary

According to widespread folklore, a red cardinal is a spiritual messenger or a sign that a deceased loved one is near.

Snow has been falling since late afternoon the day before and has only just stopped, from what Ilya can tell anyway. The whole house is quiet beneath the blanket of snow. It feels so empty and he would feel lonely if he wasn't so fucking happy to be away from Andrei and The Colonel.

And he's not alone, anyway.

Because there is a red something just outside.

___

Ilya keeps seeing cardinals when needs them most.

Notes

Sunday June 21st is not only Father's Day in the US, but the 14 year anniversary of my mom passing away. This is the 9th Father's Day I've had without my dad. And I decided to make it Ilya Rozanov's problem.

There will be translations in the end notes.

“May you come to find comfort in and remember: cardinals appear when angels are near.
So go now, sit outside and drink your tea.
Keep a look out for the little red bird — It is there, your loved one will be.”
— Victoria McGovern

There is a red… something outside of Ilya’s window. From his sofa, he can just make out the little red orb bopping around outside the frosted glass. It's freezing outside. Snow has been falling since late afternoon the day before and has only just stopped, from what Ilya can tell anyway. The whole house is quiet beneath the blanket of snow. It feels so empty and he would feel lonely if he wasn't so fucking happy to be away from Andrei and The Colonel.

And he's not alone, anyway.

Because there is a red something just outside.

Curiosity gets the best of him; it forces him to his feet and toward the windowed wall. The sound of his tapochki on the wooden floor is the only noise for what could be miles for all Ilya knows. He reaches the windows, the frost only reaching its long icy tendrils halfway up the glass, and peers outside.

At first glance, the early morning sun reflecting off of the brilliantly-white winter landscape nearly blinds him. He rears his head backwards and squints his eyes in an attempt to mitigate the burn to his retina. It takes a few long seconds for his eyes to adjust but when they finally do, he spots it.

The red something.

A bird.

A small, bright red bird is bopping around Ilya’s snow-covered patio, leaving the tiniest imprints of feet behind with every hop. It's a strange-looking bird with its bright red feathers, dark face, and pointed coif atop its head. It sort of looks like a чечевица. They had been all over Moscow in the summertime, but their feathers were more pink or raspberry than striking crimson.

Ilya’s mother had loved the чечевицы when they'd stop on the window sill. She said they kept her company while he and Andrei were out and The Colonel was busy. She had a small collection of fallen rose colored feathers in the jewelry box on the old dresser in her room.

Maybe she would like this silly little bird here. Ilya would love to be able to show it to her.

An old familiar ache erupts behind his breastbone.

Something sticky and viscous pushes its way through the gaps in Ilya’s ribs, seeking and claiming whatever space it can find until his chest cavity is full and heavy, making each breath a struggle all of a sudden. Whatever is inside of him pulls inward, like it wants to make a supernova out of the poor teenage boy it made its home in. A strangled gasp rips its way through the sludge enveloping his lungs, and Ilya has to slap a bracing hand against the winter chilled glass in front of him, lest he doubles over and collapses in on himself until he completely disappears.

The abrupt thwap of his palm against glass is jarring enough to Ilya's own ears. The sound startles the bird from where it had been perched on a snow-covered patio chair, and it is gone into the treeline before Ilya can even process the movement.

The bird is gone.

The pressure inside of his chest slowly begins to recede. Air comes easier to his lungs with each ragged breath. The house is still quiet. The snow is still outside.

The bird is gone, and Ilya is alone.

A plume of frozen condensation and cigarette smoke leaves Ilya’s mouth. He watches the way it spreads and dissipates into the grey sky. Everything is grey. The concrete below Ilya’s feet is grey. The clouds choking the sky are grey. The building he is leaning against is grey.

Everything is grey.

Except… the red bird sitting completely still on top of a nearby sign.

“Oh, cool. A cardinal.”

As Ilya takes another slow drag from the cigarette dangling between his fingers, he turns his head to see Hammersmith and Carmichael walking toward the player entrance, not far behind where Ilya has posted up for his impromptu smoke break. Ryan nods toward the bird, which still hasn't moved.

Ilya blows out another lungful of smoke, “What is it?”

“Huh? Oh, a cardinal? Do you not have them in Russia?” Ryan asks, blinking stupidly.

Resisting the urge to say something unkind, Ilya flicks the filter of his cigarette with his thumb to knock the ashes from the other end. He sucks at his teeth, shaking his head slowly from side to side.

“No,” he says bluntly, “We do not have.”

Brad's face morphs into one that at least feigns some interest in the fact he's just learned. He glances toward the bird– the cardinal– and a small, tender smile tugs at the corners of his lips. “My mother-in-law always said that if you keep seeing a cardinal then it's someone you love, who has passed away, coming to check up on you,” he says simply, as if it were a fact.

Ilya turns his head to look at the bird, only to see that it is staring directly back at him.

“That is a lot of pressure to put on birds,” Ilya scoffs. He places the filter of his cigarette between his lips and inhales deeply, watching as the burning cherry gets closer and closer to his mouth.

Ryan laughs, “I'dunno. Seems nice.”

“My wife swears she sees a cardinal in our yard around all the big events ever since her grandma passed,” Brad says with a shrug.

Ilya exhales through his nose and drops his hand to stamp the smouldering red ember at the end of his cigarette against the grey cinderblock building behind him. His eyes track back, once again, to the bird. The cardinal. It hasn't so much as moved since Ilya first noticed its presence.

Strange.

He is vaguely aware of Brad and Ryan saying something before they head toward the doors. Ilya barely musters a half-hearted wave before they settle heavily back into place, leaving him alone again. We'll, not alone.

There is the bird.

“Привет,” Ilya says, feeling incredibly stupid. What is he doing? What does he expect to happen? It's just a dumb bir–

A sharp metallic noise comes from the bird. It sounds almost exactly like two small stones being knocked together, or coins clinking. Ilya's heart stops beating for half a second, and then it is thrashing within the confines of his chest so ferociously that he can feel and hear each pulse in his ears. The gold chain around his neck is suddenly made of platinum, dense and cumbersome where it pulls and pinches his skin. The crucifix beneath his clothes, settled against his chest, is more noticeable than usual.

Is it warmer?

Ilya shakes his head, trying to shake loose whatever nonsense is stuck inside. “Я веду себя глупо. Ты всего лишь птица,” he mumbles, pocketing the extinguished cigarette butt.

As he turns away to head back inside for practice, he hears it again.

The clicking sound. It is louder this time, and repeats several times, like it is meant to get his attention. It only stops when Ilya turns to face the cardinal again. It's almost violently impassive, the way its expressionless face bores into Ilya's brain. Only once it has Ilya's attention does the bird move. It hops once, then twice, and then it takes off. It flies away easily, taking with it the only color.

The concrete below Ilya’s feet is grey. The clouds choking the sky are grey. The cardinal hadn't been grey. But, now it's gone.

The bird is gone, and Ilya is alone.

Ashamed.

Ilya had told his father that he was ashamed, because that is simply what he does. Grigori admonishes him, belittles him, and Ilya agrees. It was dangerous to disagree. Well, it had been when he was much smaller. Ilya isn't the same little child he had been. He is tall and broad. He is bigger than his father, having to look down to meet his eyes while the older man berates him for losing. For embarrassing him, their family, Russia.

Because, obviously, it is Ilya’s fault that the team lost. If Ilya wasn't so sloppy, so lazy, he could have won.

He's heard the words many times before.

He is lazy. He is weak. He is stupid.

At least, Ilya thinks bitterly, he isn't stupid enough to forget his mama.

He steels himself as his father turns away from him, ready to leave for the event. He absolutely does not want to go. The last thing Ilya wants is to be surrounded by his father's colleagues as they discuss his piss-poor performance in the Games. He wishes he were back in Boston. He wishes he were anywhere but here.

With a heavy sigh that Ilya feels all the way down to his toes, he follows his father outside. The sun is quickly approaching the horizon, sending long shadows dancing across the ground and painting beautiful streaks of pink and gold in the sky. It is winter in Russia. It is cold. Ilya doesn’t feel the cold.

He doesn't feel much at all.

He hasn't for a while. It was dangerous to feel much of anything around his father and brother.

Grigori slowly shuffles his way toward the waiting car. Ilya waits. His eyes scan the street. He's never spent much time in Sochi before the Games, but he finds he hasn't missed much. It all looks much the same as any other city he's spent time in in Russia. Same architecture, same cars, same streets.

Same, same, same.

Everything the same, except…

As Ilya makes his way toward the car. He sees it. A little blur of red sitting on the low concrete wall serving as a fence around the apartment building.

He pauses with one hand on top of the open car door and stares openly.

A cardinal.

It is definitely a cardinal. Not a чечевица. They don't typically stay in the wintertime, preferring to travel south to India or China. No, this isn't the little chubby pink bird that kept Ilya’s mama company. This was definitely a cardinal, like the one he'd seen when he first moved into his own house back in Boston. And like the one he'd seen outside the arena that chirped at him and left him feeling strangely unsettled all through practice.

Ilya’s breath catches in the back of his throat. He can't help but think of Brad Hammersmith, and what he said about cardinals.

Loved ones coming to check on you.

No. That… that can't be true.

There is no way.

The bird hops and turns and looks right at Ilya. It ruffles its own feathers before seemingly straightening up, making itself stand taller.

Ilya finds himself doing the same.

He, for some unknown reason, nods at the bird and slips inside the car. He pulls the door shut behind him, sealing him inside with his father. The bird doesn't fly away. It stays in its spot and watches as the car pulls away from the curb.

“Это был чечевица?” Grigori asks, brow furrowed.

Ilya wonders, a bit angrily, how he can remember a bird but not Ilya’s mama.

He clears his throat and nods once, very curtly, “Да, отец.”

Ilya lets his eyes fall shut as he focuses on taking in a slow, steadying breath and straightening his spine. He can do this. He has spent countless nights surrounded by rich men who talk as if they actually mean something. He can do it again. He can stand and let them criticize him for failing at something they couldn't even attempt in their wildest dreams. He can survive one stupid night.

He lays a hand just below the bow tie around his neck and can just barely feel the crucifix beneath his shirt. The weight of his hand presses it against his chest, and Ilya can't help but remember the cardinal at the arena. The way it called out to him. He sort of wishes that this bird tonight, this stranger in his homeland, had called out to him.

Then maybe he wouldn't feel so alone.

The phone, buried somewhere within the mess of Ilya’s bed linens, doesn't ring; it assaults.

The sound cuts through the silence like a jagged blade, sending a shockwave of pain through the back of his skull. He cracks his eyes open, instantly regretting it. The midday sunlight leaking through the blinds is blinding, making the room spin. His mouth feels like it is lined with wool, dry and coated in the stale, sugary remnants of last night's mixers that Marly kept shoving into his hands.

Ilya rolls onto his back, each movement accompanied by a dull, rhythmic throb deep within his temples. The air in the room is heavy, and a wave of nausea rolls over his stomach, threatening to upend the delicate balance of his insides. He closes his eyes again, taking shallow, careful breaths, trying to remember how he had even made it home.

Flashes of the night before flicker in my mind. A chaotic, fragmented reel of laughing loudly, lifting a 15kg trophy repeatedly over his head, flashing lights, holding a microphone he shouldn't have been holding, and knocking back tequila shots loop nauseatingly through his thoughts. Ilya groans, burying his face into the cool pillow, and silently vows never to drink again. At least, none of the cheap stuff the bars of Boston kept sending their way all night.

Ilya needs to move.

He needs to get up, to find his phone, to take a leak, to shower, to brush his teeth.

However, as he attempts to lift his head from the pillow beneath it, he is fully aware that at some point during the night, his head must have transformed into an egg and with each passing moment, the shell began to peel, leaving behind an unstable membrane holding everything together.

He can feel the yolk of the egg pressing down on his temple, and slowly, he lowers his head back down. The yolk is as heavy as mercury, and it rolls a lot like mercury. If he attempted to rise from his nest of blankets and pillows to get himself to the shower, the yolk, the mercury, the poisoned mass, would surely shift and roll and rupture the membrane, and his brains would fall out and spill all over the bed.

The longer he lays there, the more time becomes meaningless. But it becomes glaringly obvious that he cannot continue to lie there as the film of alcohol and sweat from the previous night's celebration makes his skin itch. So, brain spillage be damned, Ilya cautiously pushes himself into a seated position. His stomach churns unhappily, and his whole brain swims with the movement for far too long before it finally settles.

Shower. He needs a shower.

Ilya very deliberately gets himself out of bed. His skin feels too tight and his skeleton too large. Who knew winning could feel so bad, so quickly? He gets to his feet and very slowly makes his way to the bathroom, silently praying that he makes it without puking all over his floor.

The sight that meets him in the mirror isn't as shocking as Ilya expects. It's still him. His hair is wild, his eyes are tired (he's got dark circles beneath them), and his playoff beard has definitely looked better. He can't help but smile, however, at the 2014 Stanley Cup Champions shirt that is still, somehow, on his body.

He did it. He really did it.

Ilya sighs and turns the tap in the sink, ducking his head to splash himself in the face with the cold water just to feel something refreshing, and he silently wishes that he could wash his brain free of the toxins as well.

Turning the water off, he sighs and stands up to begin slowly pulling off his clothes from the night before. The smell of sweat and stale booze hit his nose, and he pauses as the nausea rears its ugly head once more. When the feeling passes, he moves to turn on the shower and steps under the almost too hot spray.

The water runs down over his head and down his spine as he just stands there, trying to remember how to be a human being and not a sac of alcohol.

Time in the shower passes at a rate all of its own. Was he in there for two minutes or two hours? Who knows. All Ilya knows is that when he steps out of the shower, his skin is warm, his hair is clean, and he feels just a bit more functional. He takes his time to slowly dry off, all of his movements very purposeful so as not to disturb the sick feeling in his stomach.

Eventually, he finds himself dressed and down in his kitchen staring at a steaming mug of camomile tea. He clutches it between both of his hands and cradles it like something precious against his chest. He inhales slowly, feeling his chest expand with air, before letting out a breath to feel the slow and steady compression. He takes a sip of his tea and lets his eyes fall shut. Slowly, but surely, he is coming back to his body.

A loud, though slightly muffled, whistle startles Ilya enough to almost make him drop his mug entirely. Thankfully, only a bit of liquid sloshes over the lip of the mug and lands on the floor between his feet.

Confused, Ilya looks for the source of the sound.

It takes half a second for him to spot it– the bright red bird perched on the planter right beside the door that opens out to the patio.

As soon as Ilya looks at it, the bird opens its beak and lets out another clear whistle sound. It's rhythmic and a little slurred. If Ilya strains his ears, he swears it almost sounds like a set of three words repeated in the high, resonating whistle.

He frowns and shuffles closer to the door. The bird just keeps whistling.

Cheer. Cheer. Cheer.

Absently, Ilya pulls open the door. He half expects the bird to fly off, but it stays. It watches him step out of the house onto the patio. It whistles again, much louder now that the glass isn't separating them.

Cheer. Cheer. Cheer.

“Привет,” Ilya murmurs, keeping his voice low.

Cheer. Cheer. Cheer.

His chest tightens, and he feels fucking ridiculous. This is just some random bird that obviously nests nearby and now Ilya is assigning some stupid cosmic meaning to it.

That doesn't explain the bird at the arena, however.

Or the one all the way in Russia.

He checked again, despite knowing the answer. Cardinals are not found in Russia. There is no reason for one to have been there that night. No reason except…

“Mama?”

The bird tilts its bead left, then right. It turns and begins to fly away from the planter, leaving a dull and empty ache somewhere inside of Ilya. Except the bird doesn't go far. It lands on the edge of the unlit fire pit, and looks back at Ilya in a way that he can only describe as recognition.

Ilya's voice shakes when he again asks, “Mama?”

Cheer. Cheer. Cheer.

The mug that Ilya's been holding slips through his lame fingers and smacks against the concrete paver below. It shatters and ceramic pieces go everywhere. Tea splatters against stone and Ilya’s legs. His tapochki are instantly soaking wet. The bird is gone in the blink of an eye. Ilya barely spots it slipping into the row of trees beyond his house.

He lets out a shaky exhale and looks back down at the mess at his feet. He takes a large step over the mess, back into the house. He peels off his tapochki and leaves them just inside the door before heading off to find the broom and dustpan.

Thankfully, it doesn't take too long to clean up the broken bits of mug. The only evidence of Ilya’s momentary lapse in sanity is the fading outline of his feet left behind by the tea that had covered him upon impact. He looks back out toward the trees, maybe looking for a sign from the bird, he's not sure. Maybe hoping that it isn't gone.

But the bird is gone, and Ilya is alone.

He should find his phone and see what the guys wanted to do to extend their celebrations.

He doesn't have to be alone anymore.

Ilya doesn't remember the rest of the game.

As he undresses and showers and puts his game day suit back on, there is only one image in his brain, and it is the horrific, nausea-inducing picture of Shane being laid out on the ice– his body prone and unmoving before medical staff arrived. Every time that Ilya blinked during the game, that is all that he saw. He is honestly surprised that he didn't vomit all over the ice as soon as he saw Shane take the hit.

What makes everything so much worse is… Ilya has no idea how Shane is. It's not like he can call someone and ask. Even if he had the number for anyone in Shane's life, it's not like they would tell him anything.

He checks his phone, refreshing pages, hoping for some update beyond the fact that Shane had been taken to the hospital.

Is he okay? Is anything broken? Is he breathing? Is he scared? Is he alone?

Before he can even comprehend that he'd done it, Ilya finds himself outside the arena with a cigarette between his lips. His fingers are trembling as he tries and fails several times to strike the lighter to life. When he finally manages to take in a deep lungful of smoke, he feels a small bit of the anxious energy that had been building in his nerves start to dissolve.

A familiar metallic clinking sound catches Ilya by surprise.

He tears his eyes away from the phone in his hand - difficult to do with the constant, nervous refreshing of injury report statuses in the hope of news about Shane. He looks around frantically until he spots it. A cardinal, sitting on a light post not too far away. When Ilya spots the little thing, for some reason, his heart slows its assault against his ribs.

The bird opens its beak and lets out a loud whistling call.

Cheer. Cheer. Cheer.

Ilya looks around, making sure that he's alone. There aren't any other players around or arena staff. It is just him and the bird. Just Ilya and…

“Mama?” Ilya whispers, his voice cracking on the second syllable.

The bird doesn't make another sound. It doesn't fly away. It does, however, take a few shuffling steps along the post it's standing on so that it is just a bit closer to where Ilya is.

“Мне страшно,” Ilya says in a rush. His hands are trembling so badly that he drops the cigarette he's holding. “Он выглядел таким маленьким и сломленным. Он выглядел точь-в-точь как ты, когда я тебя нашла.”

He doesn't notice, not at first, but a tear slides down the left side of his face as he struggles to catch his breath. The bird scoots even closer, even though it is still quite high up on the lamppost. Ilya's chest hurts. He wishes he were with Shane. He wishes he could hold his hand and kiss his beautiful freckles.

Cheer. Cheer. Cheer.

Ilya lifts a shaky hand to clumsily wipe the stray tear from his face. This is ridiculous. There's no reason he should be crying while talking to a fucking bird. He should go back to the hotel and get some rest. He can maybe visit Shane in the hospital tomorrow. Captains do that sort of thing– a show of good sportsmanship between teams when someone is seriously hurt. He can see Shane and make sure he's okay.

Yes. He'll do that.

With a soft exhale, Ilya bends down to pick up the cigarette that he dropped. He remains crouched long enough to stamp out the burning end against the asphalt. He stands slowly, retrieves the pack from his pockets, and returns the cigarette to keep for later. He stuffs the pack away and turns on his heel to walk away.

The loud, repeated clinking of coins stops him in his tracks.

Ilya swivels his head to look back up at the cardinal, still perched on the lamppost. It hops up and down a handful of times and continues to make the same aggressive clinking sound at him.

This is ridiculous.

“Спокойной ночи, Mama.”

The clinking stops immediately.

Ilya returns to his hotel.

The next morning finds Ilya standing outside the hospital, clutching his coffee cup like his life depends on it. Which, considering the little sleep he got and the long flight he has today, isn't far from the truth. He positions himself just to the right of the main doors, to keep out of the way as people enter and exit. Ilya, despite his height and musculature, has always been very good at making himself seem small and getting out of the way.

The coffee he ordered is rich and sweet; it coats his tongue in a sugary-syrupy film as he drains the dregs from the bottom of the paper cup.

Ilya turns to toss his now-empty cup into the trash can beside a nearby bench. It takes him entirely too long to realize what exactly he's seeing, and it only occurs to him as the sound of the cup ricocheting inside the empty bin echoes in his ears. Atop the trash bin isn't just one brilliant red cardinal.

But two.

Why would a second cardinal be here? In Montreal? Just outside the hospital where Shane…

His throat constructs, cutting off his air and making Ilya choke on a gasp. His eyes burn from the sudden onset of moisture as he struggles to catch his breath. The surprised gasping choke that escapes him is enough to rattle one of the birds, and it promptly leaves the scene by flying off around the corner of the building.

The other cardinal stays.

Ilya scoffs petulantly. He raises his hands to gently dab at the waterlines of his eyes with the backs of the forefinger of either hand, rolling his eyes as he does so.

“Это было не смешно, Mama,” Ilay mutters under his breath, chiding the bird.

Cheer. Cheer. Cheer.

The call is now very familiar to Ilya. He'd recognize it anywhere. It is smooth and slurring in its rhythmic repetition. He'd be able to identify it anywhere. And here, as he wrestles with heading inside to make sure that Shane is okay, he feels the comfort that that familiarity brings.

“Я сейчас зайду внутрь. Мне нужно убедиться, что с ним всё в порядке,” Ilya explains. He smooths his hands over the front of his jacket while taking in a deep and steadying breath. He glances from the bird, to the hospital entrance, and back again.

The bird shuffles around on the top of the trash bin before ruffling its feathers and stretching to stand a bit straighter.

Ilya can't help but smile at the sight. He fixes his own posture.

Cheer. Cheer. Cheer.

Ilya nods once and heads inside.

With the help of a very kind nurse, he is directed to a private room. He freezes momentarily outside the door to peer through the thin glass window set into the wood. He can see Shane inside. He's there. He looks a little banged up, but still him, still perfect.

“Ilya!” Shane calls to him as soon as he opens the door.

The sound of his own name on Shane's tongue makes Ilya's heart clench painfully behind his ribs. How had they gone so long without saying their names? How had they managed to convince themselves that this was nothing when it's clearly everything?

Ilya closes the door securely and stands rooted awkwardly in place, “I, um, I just wanted to… Are you okay?”

Shane's face is slightly bruised, and his arm is in a sling. He is squinting at Ilya, but his face holds an easy and relaxed grin that Ilya is sure he's never seen before. Shane sighs, “Concussion and a fractured collarbone. Out for the playoffs, but…”

“Could have been worse,” Ilya finishes for him. Because it could have. It could have been so much worse. Ilya's stomach tenses at the thought alone.

“Could have been worse,” Shane parrots in agreement.

Ilya nods, swallowing thickly, “Marleau feels terrible. He did not mean to hurt you.”

“I know. Part of the game. We all get our bell rung eventually, right?”

Shane is being entirely too nonchalant about this whole situation, like Ilya hadn't almost exposed whatever they are to the whole world because Shane wouldn't get up off the ice. Like Ilya didn't spend most of the night pacing his hotel room, scouring sports news outlets, hoping for a morsel of news about Shane. Like Ilya didn't almost choke on his coffee-coated tongue outside because of a bird being in the wrong place at the wrong time.

“Right,” Ilya manages to murmur.

“Hey,” Shane calls out, voice higher than usual. Ilya doesn't look at him. Shane extends a hand in Ilya’s direction, “Heeey!”

Ilya hurries across the room toward Shane's bed. “Okay, okay,” he mumbles, taking Shane's hand in his own. It's warm, and Shane's fingers curve around Ilya’s hand, like he's afraid Ilya will drop it. Ilya doesn't drop it; he squeezes Shane's hand tightly, “Shhh, shhh.”

Shane exhales happily, relaxing against his pillow as his eyes fall shut, “Yes! Bet-ter.”

“You scared me,” Ilya says before he can stop himself. Watching the hit in real time was bad enough, but then there were the replays and analysis online all night. Then, god, that other bird just outside the hospital. He's clearly put too much stock in silly superstitions if the sight of two cardinals almost made Ilya regurgitate his morning coffee.

Shane hums softly, “I'm sorry I didn't text you last night.”

Of course Shane would be apologizing right now. Stupid Canadian. “No, it's okay,” Ilya assures him. He can't help but brush his thumb along the smattering of freckles across Shane's cheek. What would Ilya have done if he couldn't do this again?

“I was excited about last night. I'm mostly mad at Marleau for fucking that up,” Shane grins lopsidedly up at Ilya, making his chest ache.

God, Shane is so pretty. Even now.

“He feels really bad,” Ilya says again. Marly had flooded Ilya’s texts for a majority of the night as he was riddled with guilt for knocking Hollander out like that.

“You know, I had a whole plan to ask you something,” Shane says, staring at Ilya with wide, earnest eyes.

Now was not the time to discuss anything like that. Not like this. Not here. Ilya sighs, "Maybe it's better if you just rest now.”

“I was gonna ask you…”

“Hollander…” Ilya warns with very little heat or conviction.

“Will you come to my cottage this summer? Don't go to Russia. Come to my house. We'll have so much fun. It's so private. No one will know.”

Ilya sighs. It sounds too good to be true. It probably is. Shane is on a lot of pain medication and probably doesn't even know what's going on. “Hollander, you know we can't do that,” Ilya says patiently.

“We could have a week or even two,” Shane continues, unbothered by Ilya’s hesitancy. “We'd be completely alone. Together.”

There is probably nothing that Ilya would like more than to spend two uninterrupted weeks with Shane.

A shadow moves across the room, followed by the softest of taps against glass. Shane's face creases at the sound, and Ilya glances over his shoulder to seek out the source. Sitting on the window-sill, just outside, is a red cardinal. It taps one, two, three more times and then stops to simply stare. Ilya's heart picks up pace inside his chest. He looks back down at beautiful Shane.

“Maybe. Maybe,” he finally says, nodding slowly.

When Ilya leaves the room shortly after, he spots the bird still in its place outside the window. The door to the hospital room closes behind him as Ilya steps into the hall. It's a bit louder out here, but no one pays him any mind.

“Спасибо, что присматриваете за ним,” Ilya whispers.

He feels less alone as he retraces his steps out of the hospital.

Returning to the cottage is a completely different affair than leaving had been.

Shane had been a nervous wreck as the two of them got into his terrible car. So much so that if Ilya knew where they were going, he would have insisted on driving instead.

Now, as they get out of the car and walk hand in hand up to the front door, Ilya feels a certain sense of peace and tranquility he hasn't ever felt before. He lets Shane lead him inside where they both remove their shoes and drop their respective phones on the kitchen counter. He feels lighter than he's ever thought possible, despite the metric ton of pasta settling in his gut.

In one smooth motion, Ilya drops Shane's hand so that he can snake both of his arms around the slimmest part of his waist. He pulls Shane flush against him, hugging his middle and keeping him secure. Shane moves willingly, easily. His arms loop around Ilya’s shoulders, and his head comes to rest over Ilya’s heart– like it is where it belongs. Where Shane belongs.

Because he does.

“I love you,” Ilya says in a low voice. Shane's hair tickles where it brushes lightly against Ilya’s lips, but he doesn't mind. “You did so well, and I am very proud of you.”

Shane scoffs, pressing closer to Ilya’s body, “I almost had a panic attack over pasta.”

“Mm, but you didn't.”

For a moment or two, Shane is quiet. His hand rests at the back of Ilya’s neck, his fingers gently twisting in the curls there. “I love you too, you know?” he mumbles, voice muffled against Ilya's chest.

“I was worried you'd stopped,” Ilya teases. He squeezes Shane's middle with a bit more of his strength and slowly begins to rock the two of them back and forth. Shane huffs out a playfully annoyed breath at Ilya's words, which is quickly replaced by a soft, content hum as they move ever so slightly from side to side.

Ilya turns his head to the side, his cheek resting atop Shane's head, and stares out the wall of windows.

The low, surprised sound that bubbles up in the back of Ilya’s throat is enough to rouse Shane's curiosity. “What?” he asks.

“There is a cardinal. On the lid of your grill,” Ilya says simply.

Shane hums, “There is.”

They stay in place, still quietly swaying with one another. Ilya’s eyes do not leave the bird. He can't think if he'd ever seen one during a nice moment. No, the bird always showed up when Ilya was at his lowest. So far from how he feels now, wrapped up in the arms of the man he is deeply, irrevocably in love with.

After a few long moments, Ilya breaks the silence.

“Hammy, on my team, he told me once that cardinals are like angels of your loved ones coming to visit,” he says, still watching the bird outside the window.

Shane slowly pulls back enough so that he can look at Ilya, who reluctantly turns his head to return his gaze. His eyes are wide and warm– so much more expressive than Ilya thinks that Shane is even aware of. The corner of Ilya’s lips twitches up in the barest hint of a smile.

“I see them sometimes. The birds,” Ilya offers.

Shane's head tilts to the side, “Yeah?”

Ilya nods and glances back out toward the bird. It hasn't moved much at all since Ilya first noticed it. “I thought it was silly. But… There was one at my house after I won the cup. One there when I first moved in and was… lonely. I saw one in Sochi, which does not make sense. Cardinals are not European or Asian bird. I saw one when I visited you after your injury,” Ilya explains slowly. He feels a little ridiculous, telling his boyfriend how he's been tracked by birds for the last several years.

Shane doesn't make him feel ridiculous.

He leans in to press a feather-light kisses to Ilya's chin.

“Do you think it's…”

Shane doesn't finish his thought. He doesn't have to, Ilya knows. He simply shrugs. “I, uh, I talk to them sometimes. In Russian. They seem to… understand. It's nice,” he says in a soft, thoughtful voice.

They stay quiet for a bit longer.

Outside, the bird hops from side to side before opening its beak to let out the all too familiar whistling call.

Cheer. Cheer. Cheer.

Ilya can't help but smile as the bird turns and flies toward the trees. He's glad she came to visit. He's had the best twenty-four hours of his life, and he's glad that his mom could stop by to see him during it. Not that he would say as much out loud. But his heart is full and he is not alone.

He won't be ever again.

It's been days of packing and making plans, and Ilya is almost ready to say screw it and throw away everything he owns. He can buy new furniture, clothes and dishware when he gets to Ottawa. It would make things so much easier and way less tedious.

He'd moved to Boston with just a few suitcases of clothes and his hockey bag. He could do it again.

With a heavy sigh, Ilya tapes shut the last box of his collected accolades and awards. He is exhausted and doesn't even want to think about having to unpack all of this again in a few days. At least Shane will be there to help. Shane will have a list and system, and it will be so much more efficient than Ilya’s follow-your-heart method of packing.

He nudges boxes aside with his feet to clear a path to the kitchen. There are only paper and plastic items available because he did not want to think about doing dishes while he packed away nearly seven years of his life. Thankfully, he thinks as he fills a red solo cup with water, the movers will be by tomorrow, and as soon as they leave, he can pack his car with his suitcases and begin his own trek north to Ottawa.

The house has been picked and purchased. Shane even found a cleaning service to go through and get the place ready for move-in day.

As he takes a sip of his water, Ilya sees a familiar red bird flying in and sitting on the back of one of the patio chairs. He wonders, briefly, if he will see any more cardinals at his new house. Sure, he's seen them at the cottage, but there is a low throbbing sadness under his skin, like a spreading bruise, at the thought of not seeing another cardinal outside of his window.

Slowly, he makes his way to the door and slides it open. The bird doesn't move a muscle as he steps outside.

“Я уезжаю завтра. Переезжаю в Канаду. Хочу быть ближе к своему парню, чтобы мы могли чаще видеться.” Ilya bites back a smile. It feels so nice to say that Shane is his boyfriend, even if it is in Russian and he is talking to a bird. He fidgets with the cup in his hand and sighs, shaking his head. “Было приятно познакомиться с тобой здесь. Буду скучать.”

The bird's head tilts one way, and then the other, like it is taking the time to appraise Ilya. It then opens its beak and sings out into the open air between the two of them.

Cheer. Cheer. Cheer.

Ilya can feel his smile grow and spread across his face. The bird turns around and takes off, back toward the trees. Ilya watches until the little red blip is completely gone. He exhales slowly, and takes a long sip of his water. He has a lot left to do before the movers arrive, so he heads back inside and closes the door behind him.

Ilya arrives at the Ottawa house a few hours before the movers are expected to arrive, but he still isn't the first one there. A SUV he has seen several times is parked in his brand new driveway. When he pulls up and parks the car, Yuna Hollander is already climbing out of the driver's seat. Ilya hardly exits his own car before she wraps him up in a hug.

“Welcome home,” she breathes out happily.

There is a sudden tightness in Ilya's throat. He subtly tries to clear it a handful of times as he hugs her back. “Thank you,” he rasps.

Yuna lets go of him so that he can take his bags out of the car before they head inside. He takes his shoes off and heads upstairs to set his bag down in his bedroom. His and Shane's bedroom. When he makes it back downstairs, Yuna is standing in the kitchen on the phone.

Ilya walks over to the large window overlooking the backyard and river. It's a really nice view.

“Sorry about that. The movers should be here soon, and Shane will be here later. He had a meeting in Montreal, but he said he'll be on the road as soon as it's over,” Yuna explains, walking over to Ilya.

Ilya nods along as she talks, continuing to stare out the window. At the edge of the deck, there is a tall pole with a curved hook at the top. Hanging from the hook is a large, bright red metal circle with a dish sitting in the middle. There are delicate metal embellishments of branches, leaves, and cardinals in the same matte red color as the hoop. Ilya’s brows furrow. He's never seen that before.

He points to it through the glass, “What is this?”

Yuna follows the direction of his finger with his eyes. “Oh. Shane ordered that and asked us to set it up before you got here. It's a bird feeder, there's a bag of ’cardinal confetti’ feed in the garage when it runs out. He said you liked birds,” she explains with a quickness that takes Ilya's ears a moment or two to catch up.

Ilya has been a hockey player for most of his life. He's taken pucks to the softest parts of his body. He's been slammed into the boards by men much bigger than him. He's chipped teeth, broken bones and smacked his head against the ice. But he's never felt this deep visceral ache inside of his chest before.

No one has made him feel so seen or cared for with such simple nonchalance.

You like cardinals. Here is a feeder for your new house.

Suddenly overcome with emotion that he has no idea what to do with, Ilya turns his head away. He doesn't need Shane's mother seeing him like this. Weak and blubbering over a bird feeder of all things. It is as if a cannonball has shot clean through his chest, leaving his bones and viscera jagged and exposed– vulnerable.

He hates it.

“Oh! Look,” Yuna says, suddenly excited.

Ilya begrudgingly turns his attention back out the window. His breath stutters in his throat as his eyes land on a single red cardinal perched on the edge of the bird feeder on the deck. It's not eating; it is simply sitting there.

“How cool,” Yuna breathes out.

As if on its own accord, Ilya's hand finds the crucifix hanging around his neck. He holds it between his finger and thumb hard enough that he knows that when he lets go, there will be an imprint in the pad of his thumb. He slowly drags his eyes from the bird to Yuna Hollander standing by his side. She isn't looking at him, but quietly watching the cardinal. Somewhere inside of him, in a place Ilya hasn't dared look to in many years, a hole is filled. Gentle shovelfuls of fresh earth are deposited into this empty, gaping hole inside of him. The emptiness is filled enough to help create some space where maybe something new can grow.

Ilya clears his throat, “That is very nice. Thank you.”

The bird turns away and begins to eat. It stays. Yuna stays. Ilya stays.

No one is alone.

It would be less painful, Ilya decides as he rolls out of bed, if he had been run over by a truck.

His body aches from a terrible concoction of pushing himself too hard in his home gym after Shane left, and too little sleep. Although he isn't sure what hurts more– his body, his heart, or his pride.

Fighting with Shane is never ideal. But the fight last night felt different in a way that left Ilya feeling unsettled and anxious. He could perfectly picture the indignation on Shane's face as they argued. He could hear the accusation in his voice when he asked if Ilya would choose him over hockey. Ilya sneers at his reflection in the bathroom mirror.

What a stupid fucking question.

Ilya had already chosen Shane over everything. Over his friends, his country, his career. He happily threw it all out the window for Shane. He would do it again in a heartbeat. But Ilya’s heart is sore as if Shane had taken a tenderizer to the organ until it was nothing but a gnarled mess of offal on the floor.

He turns away from his reflection, feeling a disgusting mixture of guilt and self-pity roiling in his gut the more he stares.

In a trance of sorts, Ilya showers, dresses and heads down to the kitchen to make tea. The house is cold, empty. Shane is back in Montreal, and Ilya is alone in Ottawa. While he waits for his tea to steep, he turns his phone back on. As soon as it lights back up, Ilya sees a message from Shane from the night before asking him to call.

Ilya isn’t ready to talk to Shane.

Not yet.

He has an appointment with Galina later; maybe she will have some insight and be able to offer some helpful advice on how to approach fixing whatever broke down between him and Shane the previous night. He sets his phone face down on the counter and grabs his mug of tea. The tapochki on his feet shuffle against the hardwood flooring with every step until Ilya finds himself pausing at the door leading outside.

The yard is covered in a thick layer of snow, mostly undisturbed save for the occasional small animal track cutting through. The morning sky is grey and the snow is stark white. The only color is the bird feeder at the corner of the deck– a brilliant red against a barred white landscape.

Ilya raises his mug to his lips to take a slow sip of the tea inside. It is warm and comforting; it thaws something frozen deep inside of him. There is a gentle throbbing inside his chest that beats in opposition to his heart. He wonders, however abstractly, if his mother ever had mornings like this, where she was alone and cold with something dark and cloying waiting somewhere in the wings to be acknowledged? Had she ever stared out the window with her own cup of tea waiting for the чечевицы to return?

The чечевицы wouldn't be back until the weather warmed. Maybe that's why she kept her collection of rosy pink and streaky brown feathers tucked away– as a reminder of warmer and brighter days.

Movement out in the yard draws Ilya’s attention back from his melancholic posturing. A cardinal, a round and red blur, lands on the feeder on the deck.

The bird doesn't acknowledge Ilya, not at first. It takes a few cursory pecks at the feed within the bowl and looks around the yard before it finally turns its head toward the window where Ilya is standing stock still. Even through the class, Ilya can hear the loud clinking sound it makes, like two small stones being knocked together. Ilya rolls his eyes.

“Я знаю. Я знаю,” he scoffs before taking a sip of tea. And he does know. He knows how he approached Shane yesterday was unreasonable, and how he reacted wasn't fair. They are both struggling and not talking about it, not wanting to taint what little time they have together with the less than fun parts of their relationship.

The bird continues to make the chipping sound.

“Я позвоню ему позже, после встречи с Галиной,” Ilya promises softly. It seems to be enough to assuage the bird as the sound stops abruptly.

Ilya sighs, “Mama… Я тебя люблю.”

He feels a little silly, talking to a bird through the window. But, at the same time, the throbbing inside of him seems to stop. The sadness is still there, maybe won't ever go away, but that's okay.

The bird ruffles its feathers and tilts its head to one side, and then the other before it opens its beak to make a loud, smooth whistling sound that pierces through the cold morning air and makes it inside the house all the way to Ilya's ears.

Cheer. Cheer. Cheer.

Ilya nods slowly, sipping at his rapidly cooling tea. He turns away from the window and slowly meanders his way through the house back to his bedroom. He will get dressed properly for the day, see Galina, and then call Shane.

Everything will be okay.

Ilya wakes up earlier than he wants. He supposes that its his body, used to the routine of getting up for practice and training, gently urging him up for the mandatory practice that he is definitely skipping today. But, when his hand arcs across cool and empty sheets, he realizes that he's actually been pulled from his slumber because he is alone.

Alone in bed, at least, because he can hear Shane puttering around downstairs.

His Shane.

His fiance.

There is no helping the broad grin that spreads across Ilya's face as he clambers out of bed. He clumsily pulls on a pair of sweatpants and a Montreal Metros hoodie on his way out of the bedroom, not wanting to spend a single second longer out of Shane's presence than he absolutely has to. He hurries down the stairs, very nearly tripping over his own feet, and slides around the corner into the living room.

Almost all of the electric candles have been picked up, only a few along the mantle and end tables remain. But Shane is not there.

“Shanya?” Ilya calls, hurrying toward the kitchen.

A burst of cold air stops him in his tracks, and when Ilya turns his head he sees the door leading out to the back deck is cracked open, letting in a bone chilling breeze through the sliver. He steps closer, ready to close the door completely but pauses hand on the handle, when he sees Shane out on the porch. He is dressed similarly to Ilya, warm but not warm enough to be outside in Ottawa's January chill.

Ilya pulls the door completely open, flinching as the cold air whips at his face. “Shanya! What are you doing?” he hisses in a playful accusation.

Shane turns away from whatever he is doing to look back at Ilya. His nose is tinged pink and his cheeks are flushed from the temperature. Ilya wants to wrap him in a blanket and kiss away the cold. Shane holds up a small plastic cup.

“I was refilling the bird feeder.”

“Get inside, silly man, the birds are not worth my fiance becoming a popsicle!”

With a laugh that somehow still bursts butterflies to life in Ilya’s stomach, Shane hurries toward him. Once he is close enough, Ilya grabs hold of Shane's wrist, pulls him inside, and closes the door. The cup Shane had been holding goes toppling to the floor as Ilya pulls him close and wraps his arms around his waist.

Their lips meet almost on instinct– two magnets pulled together by the forces of nature itself.

Shane's hands are cold against Ilya’s neck, but he can't bring himself to care. Not when he has his hands on Shane's hips, and his lips pulling soft, content sighs from Shane's mouth. After an unknowable amount of time, Ilya gradually pulls away from their kiss. He drops one, two, three lingering pecks to the plush pout on Shane's face and smiles brightly back at him.

“Why were you feeding the birds so early?” Ilya asks, his hands absently running up and down Shane's sides.

“I came downstairs and started to clean up the candles,” Shane begins to explain. His fingers push into the curls at the back of Ilya’s head, and he has to stop himself from panting like a dog at the touch. “A cardinal was sitting on the bowl, but it was empty. So, I went to get some feed from the garage. It flew off when I went outside, but only to the fence. Like it was watching me, or something.”

Curiously, Ilya turns his head to look out the window and sure enough, there is a single red cardinal perched on the feeder.

Ilya smiles, “That is just Mama. She is checking in.”

“Had to see you now that you're engaged?” Shane teases with a grin. One of his hands drops enough to slip a finger beneath the collar of Ilya's hoodie and hook around his necklace to pull the crucifix and ring free.

Ilya glances down at his necklace, despite the awkward angle, and smiles even brighter. “Yes, of course. In fact, you should meet her,” he says, already dropping his hands and stepping away from Shane.

Shane looks positively bewildered which just makes Ilya laugh softly to himself. “Come on, Hollander,” he urges, already opening the back door once again.

The bird doesn't move. It simply watches as Ilya tugs Shane back out onto the deck. “Mama! Я хотел бы представить вам своего жениха,” he says excitedly.

Beside him, Shane is smiling warmly despite the fact that his fiance– fiance!– has dragged him back out into the cold and is talking to a bird. A bird that is watching them both with a familiarity and recognition that should not be coming from an animal simply stopping by for a quick snack.

The bird shuffles around the edge of the bowl, moving a bit closer to the side where Ilya and Shane are standing, those still quite a ways away. It turns its head left, then right, then left again before it opens its beak to let out a loud whistling song.

Cheer. Cheer. Cheer.

Shane jumps slightly at the sudden sound. Ilya’s breath suddenly hitches in his throat. It's silly, he knows. But maybe Irina really is here. Maybe she is happy to meet Shane, to know that Ilya is safe and happy.

And no longer alone.

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Cover Art inspired by "I Circle You" by Selective_Attention by skargasm