Rating:

Explicit

Archive Warning:

No Archive Warnings Apply

Category:

M/M

Fandoms:

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

Relationship:

Shane Hollander/Ilya Rozanov

Characters:

Ilya Rozanov, Shane Hollander, Troy Barrett

Additional Tags:

Angst, Angst with a Hopeful Ending, Canon Compliant, Post-Book 6: The Long Game (Game Changers), Suicidal Thoughts, Implied/Referenced Suicide, no one attempts or dies by suicide, (except past Irina), Depressed Ilya Rozanov, Bipolar Ilya Rozanov, Irina Rozanova Haunts the Narrative, implied hockey, POV Ilya Rozanov, POV Shane Hollander, Angst with a Happy Ending, Happy Ending

Language:

English

Stats:

Published: 2026-06-15 Completed: 2026-06-18 Words: 17,377 Chapters: 3/3

Diversion

Summary

Ilya is married. He is married to Shane and has Shane in their bed and their house every day. He has Shane as a part of his life more fully than he ever has. People know about them. He holds Shane's hand in the grocery store without Shane pulling away. They are on the same team, getting ready to share the ice for a whole season.

Ilya has everything he'd been longing for over the past four years. Maybe longer. Probably longer.

Ilya has a hole in his chest. The edges push aside his heart and lungs, digging up under his ribs so everything feels tight and cramped while the core of his being vacillates between aching and emptiness.

In which Ilya collects pills, distracts Shane, and has a great time doing it.

Notes

Please heed the tags! Ilya is not doing well in this.
Updates should be every other day at most.

Chapter 1: Fall

Diversion (noun)
1. something that takes your attention away from somebody/something while something else is happening
2. an activity that is done for pleasure, especially because it takes your attention away from something else
3. the transfer of any legally prescribed controlled substance from its lawful purpose to an illicit, unauthorized user or use

The rookies had started at training camp last week. Ilya had shown up the first day to say hi and welcome and good luck and then quickly retreated back home to take advantage of every last minute he could spend in bed with Shane spread out next to him. Or under him. Or on top of him. But today was the first real practice for everyone, vets included. Vets and Shane.

Ilya jumped out of the car when Shane parked and ran around to the trunk to get their bags before Shane got his door open. "Allow me, my husband," Ilya said, grinning and sticking his chin out toward Shane.

"I can carry my own bag, asshole." Shane grabbed for the strap, but Ilya jumped back out of his reach, forcing Shane to charge at him. Shane wrapped his arm around Ilya's waist to hold him in place while he liberated his bag.

Ilya took advantage of the moment to press their foreheads together. "You're going to be amazing today, sweetheart. You're going to be amazing all season." He pressed his lips to Shane's in a chaste kiss and was immediately assaulted with wooo-ing from across the parking lot like they were on a bad sitcom.

"If you would kiss your wife goodbye in the parking lot, don't give us shit for it either," he yelled, without bothering to turn around to see who it was. Shane let out a huff that was only half irritated and turned to walk into the practice facility.

Harris was set up outside the locker room with a tripod, filming everyone as they filed in to gear up and return to the ice — the first time in months for the vets. Shane gave a half wave to the camera but Ilya grabbed him by the shoulders and turned him to look right down the lens. "Look at this guy!" he all but shouted, shaking Shane back and forth. "Shane Hollander's a fucking Centaur!"

There was some muffled cheering from in the locker room that could be heard as Harris muttered, "less than five minutes into the season and I already have something I need to bleep out."

Ilya grinned at him. "You're welcome," he sing-songed and followed Shane inside. He split off from Shane to go to his own stall. He dropped his bag unceremoniously and scanned the shiny and new equipment laid out in front of him, the promise of a new season pushing him down; his breath stuttered as he struggled to pull enough air in. He shook it off as much as he could and turned and walked back toward the door, leaning into Shane as he passed by, "I forgot my phone in the car." Shane nodded distractedly, focused on unpacking his bag.

His phone was sitting in the map pocket on the passenger door, right where he left it. He dropped into the seat and looked at the ceiling, letting the tears slide down his face — silently at first, but then he was sobbing.

Ilya is married. He is married to Shane and has Shane in their bed and their house every day. He has Shane as a part of his life more fully than he ever has. People know about them. He holds Shane's hand in the grocery store without Shane pulling away. They are on the same team, getting ready to share the ice for a whole season.

Ilya has everything he'd been longing for over the past four years. Maybe longer. Probably longer.

Ilya has a hole in his chest. The edges push aside his heart and lungs, digging up under his ribs so everything feels tight and cramped while the core of his being vacillates between aching and emptiness.

He took a gasping breath in between sobs and pushed the heels of his hands against his eyes until the tears slowed and then, finally, stopped. He splashed some water from a bottle in the center cup holder onto his face and looked in the mirror. He still looked like shit, so he took his sunglasses off the top of his head and slid them over his eyes.

He got away with leaving his sunglasses on until he could hide behind his helmet visor, but probably only because Shane was too distracted with the first day of practice on a new team to notice. Shane had been better about noticing lately. Sometimes to a fault.

Wiebe's approach to offense for the preseason seemed to be anything goes. He had Ilya and Shane center lines one and two, switching up the wings until they made it through every possible combination. He put Ilya on Shane's wing, like they'd played at All-Stars five years ago, and Ilya felt like he was flying. He put Shane on Ilya's wing; it was an absolute disaster.

Ilya glided by Shane, bent over laughing as Shane scowled at him. "I can be flexible!" he insisted, picking up the thread of their earlier bickering when Ilya forecasted this exact situation.

"I think we just proved that's not true, Shane. Unless you're doing yoga," he called over his shoulder, waggling his eyebrows as he hopped over the boards to let the next combination take their turn.

 

Ilya got away with the phone thing again the second day of training camp. On the third day, he was startled into silence when the driver's door opened mid-sob and Shane climbed in. He knew what Shane was seeing as his concerned eyes scanned Ilya's face: red eyes, cheeks wet with tears and snot, contorted features. Full-on ugly crying — no mirror needed to confirm. Shane's eyes filled with moisture too. "I thought it was weird you forgot your phone three days in a row." Ilya shrugged in response, he was caught. There was no use denying it. "I thought you were doing better. I'm sorry it took me this long to notice that you aren't."

"I'm sorry I didn't tell you." His voice sounded wrecked.

Shane reached out to him. It took some maneuvering, but Ilya ended up bent sideways over the consol, shift digging into his side as he sagged into Shane's lap. Shane stroked the hair off his forehead and Ilya let his eyes close at the feeling of Shane's thumb across his brow. "When's your next appointment with Galina?"

"I don't have one."

"You'll make one today." It wasn't a question. "And talk to Terry before we leave."

Ilya nodded.

Shane stopped playing with his hair and squeezed Ilya's shoulder. "I love you," he said, quietly. "Please let me help you."

"I love you too," Ilya said back and didn't respond to the rest.

 

The first time was an accident.

Their season opener wasn't until after Thanksgiving, so they spent Sunday having a nice dinner with Yuna and David and Monday afternoon at Bood's for a barbecue with the team. Ilya started the day with aching pain behind his eyes, but with the music and a couple of beers it exploded into a full blown headache. He was ready to go home and lie in a dark room, but Shane had looked like he was actually enjoying himself all day. He was currently across the yard in deep conversation with Troy and Harris, his shoulders were relaxed, and he had a cookie tucked next to the chicken breast on his plate. Ilya couldn't bear to interrupt.

"There's a medicine cabinet over the sink in the bathroom." Bood waved his hand vaguely in the direction of the house while he kept one eye on the grill. "You know where it is, go nuts." Ilya sighed in relief when he closed the bathroom door against the noise of too many hockey players and their families. He gave himself a moment to revel in the dark and quiet, but the throbbing behind his eyes urged him to flip on the harsh lights and find what he came for. He grabbed the ibuprofen, and there, right behind it, was a bottle of tramadol. Ilya had been given tramadol before but never taken it; he didn't like the thought of it after everything with Mama. But today, he was drawn to it. His hand moved on its own toward the bottle and picked it up. Zane Boodram. 50 mg. It was filled in early June — Ilya remembered the surgery he had on his wrist at the beginning of the off season. According to the label, 12 tablets were dispensed. He unscrewed the cap and looked inside. Seven tablets left. He put the bottle of tramadol down and shook four ibuprofen into his hand. He cupped his hand under the faucet and splashed just enough water into his mouth to swallow them. He picked up the tramadol to put it away but tipped two pills into his hand. He wasn't sure he was in his body — he was watching himself from the ceiling, waiting to see what he would do. He shoved them in his pocket, put everything back in place, and raced back to the yard to wrap his arms around Shane before he could think too much about what he'd done.

 

Once they got home and Shane was in the shower, he wrapped his pills in foil and shoved them into the bottle with his new anti-depressants. Escitalopram. He wasn't sure he could say that even if it was written in Cyrillic.

Shane had walked Ilya to Terry's office that third day of training camp and waited in the hall while Ilya explained that the current meds weren't working. He didn't say that he still felt an emptiness so heavy that it took everything in him to put one foot in front of the other. He didn't say that he laid in bed some nights wondering what it would be like to just not wake up the next morning, picturing how peaceful Mama's face had looked when he found her. His sanitized version of the situation was still enough for Terry to increase his dose of sertraline.

Four weeks later, the only notable change was that Ilya was curling into Shane's lap while he cried most mornings, instead of hiding himself away like a wounded animal. Ilya cried to Galina about how Shane had to cut a mat out of Anya's hair because Ilya forgot to brush her, and Galina talked about supports and safety plans and outright asked what was stopping him from killing himself. That list was getting shorter and Ilya was lying to her more and more.

So onto the next drug they went. It felt like he'd rolled back time. All those weeks through the summer being told to hang in there and give it time were for nothing. He had to start the whole process over again.

 

Shane was always watching, now. Shane watched when Ilya made his way into the kitchen in the mornings, already dragging from a night of restlessness. "Good morning," he greeted, kissing Ilya on the cheek. Then he watched Ilya take his medication and forcibly put one foot in front of the other as he went through the motions of taking Anya out, feeding her, and changing her water. Shane watched from across the locker room, like he was calculating if Ilya was laughing fast enough when someone else made a joke. He watched when Ilya left to see Galina and was sitting by the door watching when Ilya got home.

Ilya knew Shane did this out of care and love but it just made him want to punch something.

He had a shit game. There was no particular reason for it; it was a few weeks into the season so all of the rust had been worn away, but he couldn't find many shots on goal and the ones he did find, he missed. He let himself be goaded into stupid penalties and Shane took advantage of Ilya's time in the box to watch him some more in between his own shifts. Shane's pitying face was no doubt being broadcast on live TV, giving the internet plenty of ammunition for a new round of criticizing the audacity of husbands playing hockey together. He gave into the desire to punch something after the fifteenth time he heard the word cocksucker — getting himself ejected with a game misconduct right before the second intermission.

Shane drove home, so at least he had to watch the road.

Ilya didn't even let Shane get out his good morning the next day. "Would you stop fucking looking at me?" he snapped as soon as Shane turned toward him when he walked into the kitchen.

"I- what?" Shane asked, looking so genuinely confused Ilya was immediately racked with guilt.

"I'm sorry," Ilya said to the floor.

"It's okay, you had a rough night last night," Shane said quietly.

When Ilya looked up, Shane was staring into his bowl of overnight oats. Ilya walked around the island and stood right behind Shane's stool. "Is not okay." Ilya wrapped his arms around Shane and pressed his lips behind Shane's ear. "I love you."

Shane leaned back against him and hummed softly. "I love you, too."

 

The second time was also an accident, kind of.

They were at Dykstra's. Ilya didn't have a headache, but when he was in the bathroom, he looked around. Dykstra had broken a few fingers last year, which didn't seem like it should require opioids, but there they were — shoved off to the side behind some cough syrup. Tramadol, like Bood had. He put one in his pocket.

The next time they were getting groceries, he picked up a small, travel-size bottle of ibuprofen.

"Headaches still bad?" Shane asked when he saw Ilya toss it into the cart.

"They're maybe getting better, I think." In fact, they'd almost disappeared the week after he'd stopped the sertraline. "But I don't want a repeat of that one in Buffalo."

Shane pressed his hand to the small of Ilya's back. "I'm glad you're taking care of yourself."

Ilya waited until Shane was out of the house to dump the ibuprofen in the trash and replace it with the tramadol. He tucked the bottle into his dopp kit and felt the hole in his chest fill in, just a little.

 

Each time he visited a teammate, he looked for more. Boyle's wife had a c-section last year, and Ilya liberated some oxycodone. Chouinard's son broke his arm three months ago, and Ilya added 3 hydrocodone to his collection. It was shockingly easy to amass a collection of ill-gotten pain medication, so he gave himself some guidelines:

1. The drugs had to have been prescribed at least a month ago, preferably three or more, ensuring their intended recipient doesn't need them and, hopefully, that their existence has been forgotten.
2. Don't take from a full bottle; missing pills are obvious when none have been used. Skip any where the number of pills in the bottle to start is unclear. If you can't figure out how many pills were in the bottle to start, skip it.
3. Leave at least four pills behind, so missing ones are less obvious.

He wondered if it was easier or harder to get pills in Russia in 2003.

He knew, now, how Mama had felt when she got her bottle. She was tied to a cruel husband by two sons. She was stuck raising them on her own, one constantly getting caught with girls and drugs and the other lazy and unfocused. The whole world was moving around her without her say, but then she got a bottle. And that bottle could stop it all whenever she wanted. Of course she used it.

 

Shane and Troy were getting along. Shane wouldn't give him details on the conversation they'd had at Bood's, but Shane was talking to Troy even more than Ilya was these days. Shane was talking to everyone more than Ilya was these days. It made it easy for Ilya to prompt Shane to arrange a double date with Troy and Harris at their place, solely because Ilya was pretty sure Harris had surgery at some point in the past two years.

"How's it going, both of you being in the same place this year?" Harris asked.

Ilya looked at Shane and smiled. "Even better than I dreamed."

"Yeah," Shane said. "It's pretty great."

"You really do seem happier than when I first met you. Even more now than at the beginning of the season, actually," Troy said.

"Yes, well." Shane looked at him, silently offering to change the subject, but Ilya shook his head minutely. "I can talk about it," he said to Shane. "I've been depressed. Started taking medication last summer. Had to try a couple different kinds." He shrugged. "Maybe it's working, if you're noticing something."

"I'm glad you're getting help, Ilya," Harris said.

"Good for you, man."

Ilya waved them off. "Enough about me. Harris tell us more about the cheerleader movie. It's about American football? Like Friday Night Lights?"

"What? No! But I'm a Cheerleader?!" Harris exclaimed.

Troy, Ilya, and Shane stared at Harris in silence while he gawped at them.

"It's iconic queer cinema. What about Brokeback Mountain? Hedwig and the Angry Inch? You've never seen these?"

"I've heard of Brokeback Mountain," Shane said.

"Might want to consider your audience, babe," Troy said. "I wasn't exactly seeking out anything that could even remotely be considered gay."

"I grew up in Russia," Ilya offered.

"I had to have my girlfriend tell me I was gay after I'd been sleeping with men for six years."

Ilya snickered, which broke Shane's poker face, and his mouth twitched in amusement. This was Ilya's dream. It was never Stanley Cup kisses or GQ profiles, it was the ability to be a normal couple with normal couple friends. He slipped his hand into Shane's.

"Okay," Harris said, "queer movie club will be starting soon. Attendance is mandatory. We'll start with the happy ones."

"That actually sounds nice," Shane said, squeezing Ilya's hand. "It's, um, it's nice to spend time with guys who," he waved his hand around, vaguely, "you know."

Ilya grinned. "Fuck men?" Shane turned bright red and glared at him. "That looks like a yes."

Shane pulled his hand from Ilya's and used it to cover his face. "I regret everything," he muttered.

Ilya patted his thigh and kissed him on the cheek. "Be right back." He went to the bathroom and listened to Shane, Harris, and Troy discussing schedules and calendars while he headed directly for the medicine cabinet — oxycodone, right behind the toothpaste. This bottle was much fuller than the others had been; Ilya took four. All he felt was relief. Each time he slipped a new pill into his pocket, each time he transferred it to his little bottle and saw it get closer and closer to full, the hole in his chest filled in too.

 

Shane was smiling when they got home from Harris and Troy's place. Ilya waited for them to go through the ritual of hanging coats and neatly stowing shoes before he wrapped his arms around Shane and kissed his neck. "You look happy."

Shane leaned his head to the side, allowing Ilya better access. "It was a nice night." Shane stuck his hands into the back pockets of Ilya's jeans. "You seem happy, too," he said, cautiously. "Lighter."

"Yes. Maybe a little. Lighter." Shane dug his fingers into the meat of Ilya's ass and pulled him closer, rubbing his hardening cock onto Ilya's thigh. At some point during the sertraline era, sex initiation had unofficially moved to Ilya. He was sure Shane meant for it to take pressure off of Ilya, but in practice it meant he was constantly counting the days since they had sex — had it been too long without? Could they go one more day? It had been nine days. They had a nice night. Seemed like a good time.

He moved one hand to the small of Shane's back and pushed the thumb of the other into Shane's mouth. He walked Shane backwards to the couch while Shane swirled his tongue and moaned around Ilya's thumb. He undid Shane's pants quickly when he was standing with his calves against the couch, then pushed Shane to sit. Ilya sunk to his knees and sucked on Shane's cock, giving himself time to get hard as he listened to gasps and "oh my gods" and "fucks" that Shane always said while his dick was being sucked.

When Shane tugged on his hair, Ilya stopped and sat back on his heels. "If you don't stop, I'm going to come."

"So why did you stop me?" he asked, trying to sound salacious.

"Do you want to fuck me?"

Ilya tried to control his face, to not show Shane how daunting the idea of fucking him felt. He could certainly push through and get the job done but- He must have done something, a flinch, hesitated just too long, whatever it was had Shane taking the words back as fast as he'd put them out there. "Never mind, this is good. This is nice. Let's keep doing this. If you're enjoying it."

It was a fucking nightmare, listening to Shane trip over himself like he'd done something wrong by asking to get fucked by his husband. Ilya rested his cheek on Shane's thigh. "I am enjoying this," he said, truthfully. "Can I?" He looked at Shane's cock where it was still hard and leaking.

"Please."

He took Shane back into his mouth. It didn't take much more effort to get Shane back to and then over the edge. Shane sank back into the couch and Ilya trailed kisses up his thigh. When Ilya sat back on his heels, Shane looked down at him with the dopey grin he often got after sex and carded his fingers through Ilya's hair; Ilya's chest ached. Shane reached for the fly of Ilya's jeans, but Ilya moved his hand away. "Just- Keep relaxing, let me." He stood and opened his jeans just enough to get his cock out so he could jerk it roughly, wanting to keep the control to himself. Shane rested his hands on the back of Ilya's thighs; Ilya pushed his thumb back into Shane's mouth in response, giving him something to do. Shane knew him well, sucking on his thumb until Ilya started letting out the "uhs" he always did when he was close. Shane slunk down on the couch, opening his mouth and closing his eyes wordlessly. He was too good for Ilya, but Ilya took advantage anyway and came across Shane's face.

He did up his pants and kissed Shane, briefly, before trying to wipe the worst of the come from Shane's eyes with his finger. "Keep them closed, okay? I'll go get you a towel."

When Ilya came back, Shane had sat up a bit so his head was tipped back against the top of the couch cushion — he'd kept eyes closed as directed but also had a content smile on his face. Ilya brushed his fingers over the small bumps in his pocket where Harris's pills were and swallowed around the larger lump in his throat before he went to disturb Shane's peace.

 

He did, maybe, feel lighter. The hole in his chest hadn't disappeared, but it was smaller. He had more room to breathe and that feeling lasted beyond the high of dropping each of Harris's oxys into his bottle, filling it to the brim.

"That's really promising, Roz," Terry said, when Ilya checked in. "You have room to increase your dose. That might be what you need."

"And then I'm cured?"

"That's not quite how it works, but hopefully you'll be able to go back to life as usual."

Ilya nodded, thanked Terry, and walked out of the office. He tried to remember what "usual" felt like and came up empty.

 

"Ilya-!" Shane hissed while he was removing Ilya's hand from where he slid it across Shane's ass. "We're in public!"

"It's mostly the team," Ilya dismissed, waving his hand in the air to indicate the whole of the hotel bar.

"That's still public," Shane admonished. "If Bood wouldn't do it to Cassie, you are supposed to keep your hands to yourself."

"Hey, Bood!" Ilya yelled across the bar. Shane buried his head in his hands, but Ilya could see the corner of his smile so he continued. "If Cassie were here right now, would you discreetly grab her ass?"

"Do not pull me into your marital spat, Rozy," Bood called back.

Ilya over-exaggerated his huff in response. "Fine," he said to Shane, "let's go to our room."

"It's almost midnight. We should stay and celebrate."

"Yes, but if we leave now we could celebrate the new year with my tongue in your ass."

Shane practically left a cloud of dust behind him in his haste to get to the elevator.

"Do you remember what happened the last time we were in this hotel together?" Ilya asked between nips to Shane's neck once he had Shane pinned to the inside of the door to their room.

Shane grabbed Ilya's ass, pulling their hips together. "Tell me."

"You came out to me as gay after you'd been sleeping with me for seven years."

"Oh, fuck you," Shane said playfully, pushing Ilya off him, but walking him backwards to the bed.

Ilya fell back when his legs hit the mattress, pulling Shane on top of him. Ilya had done his best to keep their sex life consistent, steady. There have been blow jobs and hand jobs and Ilya's fucked Shane close to once per week; it's all been nice.

But now? Ilya wants.

Maybe it was the drugs working, maybe it was the memory of Shane so earnestly coming out to him. Ilya could still picture him, sitting on a bed in a room that looked exactly like this, his face serious and pained in a way Ilya had never seen before. He could remember the dread in his stomach when he thought Shane was going to end it for real, the relief when he didn't. Maybe it was the fact that that night was a turning point for them even though the only promise at the end of the night was his first name in Shane's mouth. Maybe it was the knowledge that he had a bottle full of pills tucked away in the bathroom as a backup, but Ilya wanted Shane more than he had in months.

Shane's face was hovering over Ilya's. Something — uncertainty maybe — flashed across his face. Ilya put his hand behind Shane's neck and pulled him down so he could bite at Shane's lip and lick into his mouth. "We are wearing too many clothes," Ilya said, reaching in between them for Shane's pants. Shane sat up on his knees, straddling Ilya, and pulled off his own shirt. Ilya sat up in a half-crunch to pull his shirt over his head as he watched Shane stand to strip off the rest of his clothes. Each sliver of skin that got exposed made Ilya ache for him more.

Ilya's pants were still on, his shoes were still on, but as soon as Shane finished placing his clothes carefully on top of the dresser, Ilya was up off the bed and pushing Shane back down in his place. He started licking up the crease of Shane's thigh and was rewarded with a buck of Shane's hips. He moved up Shane's body, licking and kissing across his abs, his pecs, his neck and reveling in the mix of whimpers and moans Shane let out.

"Ilya," Shane said, once Ilya's finished sucking a bruise just under Shane's left nipple, "you said something about your tongue in my ass." Shane's fingers twisted in his hair and applied gentle pressure to coax Ilya down.

"I did." Ilya scraped his teeth across the purple mark blooming on Shane's chest. "I won't make you wait anymore." Shane looped his hands under his knees and pulled them toward his chest. Ilya pushed on the back of Shane's thighs and ducked down to fulfill his promise. He was surrounded with the taste, smell, and feel of Shane — like he was having sex in color after months of black and white.

He pushed the flat of his tongue across Shane's hole before lapping around his rim. "Fuck, Ilya," Shane breathed out. "How long has it been since we've done this?"

"Too long," Ilya replied, before starting to lick his way into Shane.

Shane released his grip from under one of his knees in favor of rolling his balls around in his hand. "Jesus Christ," he breathed as his heel settled against Ilya's shoulder.

"That's right, make yourself feel good."

"You make me feel good."

Another wave of desire rolled through his body and Ilya reluctantly pulled back from Shane's ass. He wanted to live there for a little longer, but the desire to fuck Shane was starting to win out. "I want to be in you. Can I be in you? Please?"

"Fuck yes. Please," Shane begged right back.

Ilya scrambled to his feet and quickly shucked the rest of his clothes, tripping when he got his pants caught on his shoes in his haste to get the lube from where it was nestled in his dopp kit.

Shane held out his hand. "Give me." Ilya tossed him the lube. "Sit," Shane said, motioning to the foot of the bed.

Ilya obeyed and watched as Shane coated his fingers with lube and pushed one inside himself. Ilya brought his hand down to his cock unconsciously, slowly brushing his fingertips up and down the shaft while he watched Shane fuck himself on his fingers. His gaze flipped back and forth from the blissed-out look on Shane's face to where two fingers now were disappearing into his hole. Ilya grabbed the lube and slicked up one of his own fingers, sliding it into Shane alongside Shane's own. They both groaned as Ilya's finger entwined with Shane's, Shane's body readily stretching and relaxing to accommodate the added girth.

"Now, now," Shane pleaded. Ilya squeezed the lube directly onto his cock and positioned himself — one of Shane's legs thrown over his shoulder, head of his dick pressed right against Shane's hole. He watched Shane's face as he pushed in. He would never get tired of the way Shane's mouth popped open into a small O and his breath hitched at the moment Ilya entered him. He didn't move at first; he was so turned on he was worried he would come as soon as he started thrusting. Shane started digging his heel into Ilya's shoulder. "Come on," he urged.

Ilya moved slowly, relishing in the slide of his cock in the tight heat of Shane. He heard the pop of fireworks outside and looked at the clock. 12:01. "Guess we moved too fast for your tongue in my ass in the new year." Shane smirked at him.

"Is that a complaint?"

"I'll only complain if you don't start actually fucking me."

"I'm pretty sure this counts," Ilya said but rolled his hips slightly faster, adjusting his angle until Shane closed his eyes and gasped as Ilya hit his prostate. Ilya sped his thrusts and Shane's hands flew up to brace himself against the headboard. Shane's eyes were closed in pleasure, his head bent back so Ilya could admire the curve of his neck. He watched Shane's chest as his breathing quickened and looked for the telltale twitches of his mouth that gave away when he was getting close. When Shane's eyes squeezed shut tighter, Ilya braced himself on the bed with one hand so he could use the other to smear the precome leaking out of Shane's cock along the shaft to ease the way as he worked his hand up and down.

"Ilya, I'm gonna-" Shane's voice cut off as he moaned while he came across both their chests. Ilya kept stroking him through his orgasm, then took his hand off Shane's cock so he could get the leverage he needed for a few last thrusts to achieve his own release, filling Shane's hole with his come. He gently lowered Shane's leg to the bed, then fell forward onto Shane's chest. He stayed there until their breathing returned to normal then pulled out and immediately crawled back down the bed to watch his come leak out of Shane's hole. He used his tongue to push it back in, letting the taste of him and Shane mixed together play across his mouth.

He must have fallen asleep, briefly, in the post-orgasm haze, with his head pillowed on Shane's thigh, because the next thing he knew Shane was prodding him into the shower. Once they and the bed were cleaned, Shane crawled beneath the covers and quickly fell into a deep sleep. Ilya gently sat down next to him and pulled his knees to his chest. He rubbed his cross between his thumb and forefinger on his right hand and held his bottle of pills in the other. It was the closest he'd ever gotten — ever would get — to having Mama and Shane in the same room. He watched Shane and waited for sleep that didn't come. 

Chapter 2: Winter

Shane woke up and opened his eyes to Ilya's grinning face. "Good morning, sweetheart," Ilya said, before dipping his head to kiss Shane's forehead.

Shane snuggled into Ilya's side and pressed his lips to Ilya's chest. He honestly couldn't remember the last time Ilya smiled like that or even the last time he woke up before Shane. Or the last time he'd looked at Shane with as much desire in his eyes as he had last night. It had been months of riding the fine line between prodding him out of bed into the world and not being overbearing or insensitive to what he had been dealing with. "You're in a good mood this morning," he mumbled into Ilya's ribs.

"I think-," Ilya started, but he cut himself off. Shane lifted his head; Ilya's eyes were wet, tears threatening to spill. There was no getting used to watching Ilya cry; it broke his heart every time.  "I think the drugs are working," Ilya finished, as Shane brushed his thumb across Ilya's cheek.

"So why are you…?"

"I think I might feel better than I ever have. It's a lot to feel."

Shane sat up so he could hold Ilya's head in his hands. "I'm so happy for you. And so proud of you." He kissed Ilya, chastely, and failed to hide his grimace at kissing before they brushed their teeth. Ilya chuckled and bent down to mouth along Shane's neck instead. "We have team breakfast in ten minutes," Shane protested, even as he tipped his head to the side.

"Sounds like we have twenty minutes before we're noticeably late." Shane propped himself on his elbows so he could watch as Ilya kissed down his chest and pulled off his briefs. He thrust up into Ilya's mouth as soon as Ilya's lips touched his cock. Ilya didn't flinch, just pressed his tongue to the underside of Shane's cock briefly, before bobbing up and down in earnest. Shane closed his eyes and focused on the wet noises of his cock moving in and out of Ilya's mouth. This was the second time they were having sex in the span of twelve hours, something they hadn't done since the season started. And Ilya was so enthusiastic Shane didn't feel the need to make sure Ilya was actually enjoying it. His hips jerked again but this time Ilya put his hands on Shane's hips and pushed him into the mattress, pinning him in place. That was all it took. Shane came into Ilya's mouth and opened his eyes in time to watch Ilya swallow it all down. Shane grabbed Ilya by the shoulders and flipped them over to reverse their positions. He got his lips around Ilya's cock and let Ilya fuck up into his mouth, fast and furious, until Shane's mouth was flooded with come.

Ilya made a production of reaching for his phone and checking the time. "Look," he held it toward Shane, "you still have time to brush your teeth."

Shane covered Ilya's body with his own, rolling his eyes as he tucked his grinning face into the crook of Ilya's neck. It felt like his husband had come back to him from war; he wanted to grab onto this feeling and never let it go. "I love you so much."

—

Troy Barrett

Just now

Troy: Did you and Ilya really decide to get another dog?

Shane: ??

Shane: No.

Troy: He's over here telling Harris to keep his eye out for a sister for Anya and that you are totally on board.

Troy: I can't tell if hes joking so i wanted to check

Shane: What?!

Shane: Don't let him get a dog.

Shane: Please

Troy: 👍

Troy: Is he okay? He seems…different.

Shane: He's okay. Drugs are working finally.

Shane: I think you just haven't known him when he wasn't sad all the time.

Troy: 👍

—

Ilya had practically jumped up and down with joy when Shane agreed to come out tonight. He would almost always pick staying in, but nights out with the Centaurs were much, much more tolerable — even enjoyable — than nights with the Metros, especially when they made Ilya look like he did now. Shane was sitting in a corner booth talking with Troy and Wyatt watching Ilya on the dance floor. He was almost as beautiful there as he was on the ice, his hips moving in time with the music, the light changing across his face. He was dancing with Lisa Hayes, twirling her in and out, lifting her right off her feet and spinning around the floor. Even as they laughed together, Ilya kept looking over at Shane and pouting, silently begging Shane to join him on the dance floor.

"Oh my God, put him out of his misery," Troy said, after the fifth pointed glance from Ilya in their direction.

"Seriously, it's like you're holding a steak just out of reach of a puppy," Wyatt added.

"You going to join me out there, Hayes? Take over with your wife?"

"No way she wants me out there. She barely made it out of our wedding with her feet intact."

"I mean, you saw me dance at my wedding."

"We did," Troy said, "and somehow Roz still wants you out there."

"So you kind of owe it to him," Wyatt said.

"Fine," Shane relented. He was immediately rewarded when Ilya's face lit up as soon as he walked on to the dance floor. He tried to follow as Ilya guided his hips to the beat but there really wasn't a way for Shane to not be awkward when dancing.

Ilya didn't seem to mind, pressing their bodies together in a dirty grind when the song changed. This at least was a motion Shane was more familiar with, even if it felt completely out of place in public. "Can we go do this somewhere with fewer clothes?" Shane whispered in Ilya's ear when the song ended. Ilya gave him a wicked grin and pulled him out of the bar. Shane spared a glance toward their table before they got to the door and was met with Troy and Wyatt each giving him two thumbs up.

Shane followed Ilya out to their car, parked on a side street around the corner from the bar. Ilya opened the back door and extended his hand toward the car in invitation. "Ilya," Shane said, knowing exactly what was being proposed, yet climbing into the car anyway. "We're in the middle of the street."

Ilya pulled the door shut behind him and started palming Shane's cock, already half hard from the dancing, through his pants. "Then you better be quiet and stay very, very still."

"Ilya," Shane warned again as Ilya started to undo his fly. Ilya looked up at Shane from where he was bent over and raised his eyebrows, a silent question. Shane leaned his head back against the seat, gripped the door handle with one hand and gently cupped the back of Ilya‘s head with the other. Permission granted, Ilya went to work taking Shane all the way down his throat. Shane tightened his grip on Ilya's hair in an attempt to stay still. He quickly had to move his hand from the door handle to his mouth, biting down on his fist to stay quiet as everything in him focused on the wet heat of Ilya's mouth. He'd actually gotten better at staying still and quiet over the years — this wasn't their first car blow job — but he'd never had to do it while parked right next to a sidewalk in a busy city. As much as he protested Ilya's new habit of finding more and more risky places to have sex, he loved the feeling that Ilya couldn't wait one more second without the two of them pressed together. He loved that he could make Ilya smile again by saying yes. It didn't take much for him to come into Ilya's mouth. He lay there against the seat and listened to Ilya open his own pants, pull his cock out into his fist, and start jerking it fast.

"I want to come all over you," Ilya whispered. "Mark you up, make it so everyone knows your mine."

"Please."

It never took Ilya long either when they fucked like this. Soon enough, Ilya was rising up on his knees and whispering at Shane to open his mouth. Shane kept his eyes closed and obeyed, eager for Ilya to claim him. He felt warm stripes of come across his tongue and over his face. He licked his lips scooping up whatever he could reach while Ilya rustled around for the wet wipes they stashed in the center console for just this purpose. Ilya carefully wiped his face, tucked their dicks away, and made sure all items of clothing were back in place. He kissed Shane.

"You're glad you came out, yes?"

"Fuck you," Shane said, but he couldn't keep the smile off his face.

—

Troy Barrett

Monday 6:13 PM

Shane: Maybe you and Harris can come for dinner sometime after All Stars?

Shane: I just want one night where I don't get woken up when he gets home in the middle of the night. Hoping I can get him to stay in if we can socialize in the house.

Troy: We can def do that. But have you tried asking instead of like, tricking him into it?

Shane: Yes

Shane: There were mixed results.

Troy: 🍆?

Shane: You're as bad as him.

Today 10:15 PM

Troy: What the hell are you guys doing at All Stars?

Shane: ???

Troy: Is Roz completely wasted?

Troy: Screenshot of text messages:

---

Cap'n Rozy

Today 10:07 PM

Cap'n Rozy: Do uthnik we can get coch to get a preist to bless the rnk

Troy: What?

Cap'n Rozy: There is a preist in this barandhes rlly nice. We hv mtchingncklace

Cap'n Rozy: I thnk we could imprv ourgame if we hd him bless teh rink

Cap'n Rozy: [Image: Picture of Ilya and a guy taken by an unseen person. They are in a crowded bar, other MLH players can be seen in the background. The man in the photo is wearing a plain blue tee with a large gold cross around his neck. Ilya is wearing no shirt and a crown. They are both holding up their crosses to the camera and grinning.]

Troy: Why do you have a crown

Cap'n Rozy: Im king of the gays

Cap'n Rozy: Quers

Cap'n Rozy: Bi pplexist

Cap'n Rozy: I should no

---

Shane: Fuck. I knew I shouldn't have left him alone.

—

Shane sat in bed, alone, his copy of Beauties: Hockey's Greatest Untold Stories propped against his knees. It was a good book, but he was making slow progress since he kept interrupting himself to check the time. When he moved to Ottawa, he looked forward to going to bed together more often, finally moving on from too many nights spent facetiming from separate beds. He was right, at first. They'd always done that at the cottage, and that continued through the summer. On the good days, fueled by hope that the medication was going to work and the residual high of their wedding, they would trade soft kisses and let their hands run over bare skin — already sated from morning sex and daytime sex and evening sex — before falling asleep with one of them draped over the other. On the bad days, Shane would curl himself around Ilya and hold him as he cried until exhaustion took over.

The bad days had become more frequent when they moved back into the Ottawa house and the pre-season ticked closer. Shane wouldn't have wanted to be anywhere else, but it killed him inside to see Ilya so broken. And to see another vision he had for his future, where they slept tangled together and shared lazy mornings in bed, drift away.

They had about a month of good days after Ilya found the right medication, where they would crawl into bed together and capture some of the magic of the cottage or Shane would join Ilya for a night out. But now, Ilya was out more often than not. They saw each other everyday, roomed together on roadies, but nights at home didn't feel that different than they had when they were living in separate cities.

This was not an Ilya Shane was familiar with. Not up close, at least. Shane had spent seven years fucking Ilya while watching him party from afar, saving pictures from articles like "Ilya Rozanov's 7 Best Slavic Fuck Boy Outfits of 2015" to a hidden album on his phone, tracking if the same girl ever showed up in more than one picture. He had spent one year watching Ilya go out with his Raiders teammates when Shane's schedule didn't allow for an evening call — he would get back to his hotel from a late game on the west coast to a string of texts narrating the evening and, if he was lucky, a torso selfie from a club bathroom. He had spent three years watching Ilya slip deeper and deeper into depression — or, rather, not watching, not paying near enough attention.

Current-Ilya seemed to be on a mission to make up for the last four years. Shane couldn't begrudge Ilya for it, not when Ilya was so happy all the time now. Giddy. Bouncing from one person or activity to the next. He just hadn't expected living with his husband to be so lonely.

This time, Ilya managed to get into bed without waking Shane and Shane tried to return the favor by quietly crawling out of bed and creeping downstairs to start the day. It wasn't too long before Ilya came into the kitchen, freshly showered with wet curls hanging over his forehead. He had joggers sitting low on his hips, held up by not much more than hope, and no shirt.

His face melted into a smile when he saw Shane. "Good morning," he said, voice still scratchy with sleep, and all of Shane's irritation was washed away.

Shane saw it when Ilya turned his back to Shane so he could pour himself coffee. High on his back, halfway between his neck and his right shoulder, right on the spot Shane liked to sink his teeth into, was a tattoo. The spot was a little shiny from whatever Ilya had put on it after his shower; the edges were red. Shane speed walked across the kitchen and grabbed Ilya's bicep, keeping him still so Shane could see better. Ilya let out a yelp of surprise and his spoon clattered to the counter.

Шейн

Shane turned Ilya to face him instead of the cabinets. "Did you get my name tattooed on your back last night?" He tried to sound stern even though he was more turned on than he ever had been.

Ilya didn't look the least bit abashed. "Are you trying to scold me, Shane?" He dropped his eyes to Shane's crotch where the outline of his dick was now visible. "It doesn't look like you are."

It was undeniably hot. His husband has his name permanently imprinted on his body. His brain went offline, stuck on nothing more than the fact that his name is on Ilya's body. Ilya smirked, put one hand on Shane's ass, fingers slipping suggestively between his cheeks. His brain rebooted and he moved Ilya's hand away, digging deep to find responsible Shane Hollander buried under several layers of lust. "How did this happen? Were you planning it? It's the middle of the season, doesn't it need to heal?"

"Shane, Shane." Ilya took Shane's hands in his, halting Shane's wild gesticulation. "It is fine. We have today off and a game tomorrow night. Dylan showed me how to cover it for hockey. It will heal fine."

"Who's Dylan?"

"Tattoo artist." Ilya shrugged. The obviously was implied.

"I thought you were going out with some of the team last night."

"I did. At the bar last night the rookie, Luca, and some of the other kids were trying to plan their first tattoos but got all scared about it hurting. So I told them they could see how it's not a big deal."

"You got my name on your body on a whim?"

"I'd thought about it before. Seemed like an opportune time. It's hot, yes?"

"So fucking hot," Shane said, ignoring the fact that the whole thing also sounded so fucking stupid. Ilya grinned at him wickedly — the face that was always a prelude to a really, really good orgasm. Shane turned Ilya back around and stood behind him, pinning Ilya against the counter with his hips. He ground against Ilya's ass, letting him feel how hard he'd gotten, while he brushed his fingers across Ilya's back under the tattoo, careful not to get too close. He bent his head and bit into that same spot on the other side of Ilya's neck. He worked the skin between his teeth, alternately sucking and licking until a purple bruise bloomed under his mouth. They were both going to get enough shit for the tattoo itself in the locker room, a hickey wasn't going to make it any worse.

 

Troy Barrett

Yesterday

Shane: I'll come next time, but for tonight can you please keep an eye and let me know if he still seems off.

Just now

Shane: Did you know about Ilya and the kids last night?

Troy: No?

Shane: With the tattoos.

Troy: I tihnk i heard a plan to let them watch him get a tattoo at sm point.

Shane: Yeah. They did that last night.

Troy: Fuck

Troy: Sry

Shane: It's okay. It's not terrible, kind of hot actually.

Troy: Whats the tattoo?

Shane: um

Shane: My name

Troy: You guys already fucked about it didnt you

Shane: Of course.

Shane: What would you do if Harris came home like that?

Troy: Make sure he wasn't under alien influence or smth

Troy: and then fuck him

Troy: Maybe i can convince him to get my number tattooed somewhere

Troy: Something small and tasteful

Shane: Want me to talk to him?

Shane: I can recommend tattoo sex highly.

 —

Shane was tucked in his reading nook by the bay windows overlooking the front yard when the trailer showed up. Ilya went flying out of the house in nothing but jogging shorts, a thin hoodie, and slides, yelling "it's here, Shane!" as he slammed the door behind him.

Shane felt his stomach twist. The giddier Ilya was these days the more likely it was that Shane wouldn't be a fan of whatever was going on. He put on weather-appropriate clothes and took Ilya's coat off its hook by the door. He moved slowly, dreading finding out exactly what he was walking into. There were two men doing something with a trailer while Ilya looked over some papers on a clipboard with a third. Shane draped Ilya's coat over his shoulders. It was -1 degrees; he'd crunched across ice on his way to Ilya. "What's here?"

"Our new car!"

"Our what?" Shane stared at him, he knew his mouth was partway open. Ilya didn't even look in his direction, just stepped away to chat with the men opening the trailer.

Ilya's eyes lit up as the trailer opened to reveal a fucking sports car. Shane felt sick. He watched Ilya bounce around as the car was rolled off the trailer. He watched Ilya take the keys and turn on the car — the purring engine competing with the static in Shane's brain. Ilya signed something and waved to the crew as they closed everything up and drove away.

"I'm going to get the keys and move the jeep to the driveway so the Masarati can go in the garage," Ilya said, like this was a normal Tuesday activity.

"What the hell, Ilya?"

Ilya ignored the irritation in Shane's voice. "I know you love your Jeep, but it's a little more expensive to replace this, so I think we can live with the Jeep in the driveway until we figure out the best way to expand the garage."

Shane felt like he was eleven steps behind where Ilya was right now. He took a deep breath.

"When did you decide to get a new car?" he kept his voice calm, even.

"Remember when you wouldn't let me get a dog?"

"Did you buy yourself a Masarati instead of a dog?" So much for calm.

Ilya shrugged. "It's less work for you. But it's not my car, the car is for both of us."

"Ilya," Shane started, and he knew he had on his lecture face and was using his lecture tone but this is —off. Ilya is wrong.

"Shane," Ilya sing-songed, before Shane could figure out where he should even start with this. Ilya stepped into Shane's space so their foreheads were touching. He slid his hands under Shane's coat to grip Shane's ass. "Don't you want to go for the first ride with me?" He rolled his hips forward; Shane could feel Ilya's half hard cock against his thigh. "We could christen it."

Shane pushed back with his thigh, urging Ilya to grind against him. He wanted Ilya like this: happy, engaging in something he enjoys, pursuing sex with Shane out of desire rather than obligation. They didn't really have space to expand the garage, but it wasn't like they couldn't afford the car. "You won't drive too fast?"

Ilya bit Shane's earlobe. "Of course I won't," he whispered.

Ilya drove too fast, but when they stopped at an overlook 45 minutes outside of Ottawa and Shane bent over the hood while Ilya fucked into him, he couldn't find it in himself to care anymore.

—

Ilya was, unsurprisingly, dead to the world when Shane woke up for the second time that day at 7:30. He'd first woken when Ilya stumbled into bed at 4:30 am, smelling like sweat, cigarettes, and tequila. "Mm good," Ilya had slurred before he passed out, leaving Shane alone to stare at the ceiling while he calmed his brain enough to fall back asleep.

He took pity on Ilya, regardless, and put a Gatorade and bottle of ibuprofen next to the bed before setting himself up in the breakfast nook with coffee and yogurt. He looked at his phone to see hundreds of notifications.

He started with the texts.

Troy Barrett

Today 6:58 am

Troy: Is Roz okay? Did he make it home?

Troy: Are you okay?

 

Centaurs

Today 7:03 am

Zane Boodram: @shane, @ ilya, you guys okay?

Zane Boodram: I know it's not what it looks like, but you guys just can't catch a break.

Gabe LaPointe: I thought Ilya was going home at, like, midnight. wth happened?

Luca Haas: What are we even talking about?

Evan Dykstra: [link]

Shane clicked on the link, increasingly sure he didn't want to see what was there. It took him to a shitty gossip site with the headline TROUBLE IN PARADISE? just above a large picture of Ilya, elbow linked with a woman Shane had never seen before, both of them taking a shot. That explained the tequila.

There was a whole album of pictures of Ilya and this woman. Dancing, drinking, one where she was grabbing Ilya's hand licking what was presumably salt off the back of it. Shane squinted at the background — they were in a house, but not one he had been to before.

Ilya Rozanov, captain of the Ottawa Centaurs hockey team, was spotted out on the town last night. Our source met him at a local bar, but he quickly responded to an invitation to join the group at a house party. Rozanov was famously outted last year after being caught kissing Shane Hollander (Ottawa Centaurs) in the background of a FanMail video that went viral. The pair married last summer and have by all accounts shown the public a face of nothing but love. But the pictures shared with Deuxmoi tell a different story. Is Rozanov missing his party days? Can the so-called "sluttiest member of the Raiders" (Rozanov's previous team) really be domesticated?

"You've got to be fucking kidding me," he said to the fridge.

Troy Barrett

Today 6:58 am

Troy: Is Roz okay? Did he make it home?

Troy: Are you okay?

Just now

Shane: Do you know who that is in the picture?

 

Centaurs

Evan Dykstra: [link]

Just now

Shane: Ilya's fine. He's home.

Shane ignored all of the Twitter and Instagram mentions and scrolled through the rest of his texts. He had messages from about half the Centaurs outside of the group chat, Hayden, and one from his mom that just said call me when you wake up.

He didn't call her, he made a list on real paper. He worked backwards, writing down each thing he could think of that Ilya had done over the past few months that didn't seem…him. He felt nauseous with it all staring him in the face, a mix of anger, worry, and sadness churning his stomach. 

By 9:00, he still hadn't heard a sound come from the bedroom. He walked in, stomping a bit, iPad in hand, and flung the curtains open. Even as the light spread across the bed, Ilya didn't move.

"Get up." He pulled the covers off Ilya and prodded his shoulder.

Ilya groans. "It's too early. Everything hurts."

"It's only early if you stay out all night, Ilya." Ilya properly opened his eyes at that. They were blood shot. His whole countenance was that of someone who got run over by a truck. Shane didn't care. He dropped the iPad on Ilya's chest. "Explain."

Ilya squinted at the screen. "Is not what it looks like."

"I know it's not what it looks like. I want to know what the fuck it is."

"I think, ugh, can we please close the curtains?"

Shane sighed, but complied.

"I think we were just having good time? She and her friends were at bar and then it was closing."

"So obviously the smart move was to go to a house party with strangers the night before a game rather than coming home to sleep."

"I don't really remember that part."

"Jesus Christ, Ilya. You're blacking out now?"

"I was just having a little fun, Shane. I'm allowed to enjoy myself even if I'm married to man who thinks party is a can of ginger ale and bed at 9:30."

"Don't do that. Don't pick a fight. Don't make digs at me. I'm worried about you. Fuck."

Ilya opened his mouth again; Shane could see the fight was still in his eyes. "I'm going to walk away before you say something you don't mean. You've got thirty minutes to get your shit together to get to the rink for morning skate. I'll be amazed if you don't get scratched."

Five minutes before they had to leave for practice, Ilya was still completely passed out in bed; Shane left without him. He sat in the parking lot gripping the steering wheel hard enough that his knuckles turned white as he ran through what he was going to say when everyone realized Ilya wasn't coming. He started by waiting until the last possible second to get to the room they use for tape review so he could slip in when most everyone was already seated.

It didn't work.

"Roz dragging behind today?" Dykstra joked.

"I'm sure it's an indoor sunglasses kind of day," Bood said.

"Roz right behind you?" Jake, their video coach, asked. "I can wait about a minute and a half before we have to get started."

Shane steadied his voice. "I don't think he's coming."

Every side conversation stopped, the only noise left from the whir of the computers and 230 pound hockey players shifting in their seats. Shane wanted to crawl into a hole.

"Okay," Jake said, after a moment. "Then let's start by looking at their game against Florida last week."

Shane paid attention through tape review, though his phone didn't leave his hand as he waited for it to buzz with any kind of update from Ilya. He made it to the locker room without anyone bothering him; he probably had Troy to thank for that. Wiebe pulled him aside right before they got on the ice. "Jake told me you didn't think Ilya was coming."

Shane stood up a little straighter. "I'm sorry, he was-"

"No." Wiebe put up a hand to stop him. "It's between me and Ilya. You're not in charge of him."

"Right. Okay."

"I'm telling you this as a player, not a husband: prepare to center the first line tonight."

Shane nodded and pushed every thought and feeling he'd had since he woke up away so he could focus on hockey.

 

All the cars were present when Shane got home from practice, so he assumed Ilya was still in bed when the only noise in the house was Anya bolting toward him when he opened the door. Shane let her out into the yard and started making himself some lunch, closing cabinets and putting containers on the counter with more force than necessary.

He stopped what he was doing when he heard footsteps on the stairs and stared at the doorway waiting for Ilya to appear. He looked slightly better than he had first thing in the morning but he was still squinting against the light. Shane waited for Ilya to speak first.

"I got an angry voicemail from coach."

"I bet."

"I'm scratched."

"I know."

"This has never happened to me before."

"I know that too."

Ilya wiped his hand down his face. He looked weary. "There's a lot of stuff on Twitter."

"There is."

"I'm sorry."

"I don't need you to be sorry. I need you to tell me what's going on. I've been spending months telling myself that this is what you're like when you're not sad all the time. That this is what you were like all those years in Boston when we were just-. But fucking with hockey? I've never seen you threaten your performance or your team like this. Never. Not even from afar."

"This is not the first time I got home at 4 in the morning."

"That trashed? And then skipping practice?"

"I think I just need to remember I'm not 24 anymore."

Shane laughed a little at that. "You're not."

"Too much alcohol is a lot less alcohol at 30 than 24."

Shane extended his arm in invitation, and Ilya crossed to him and dropped his head to Shane's shoulder. Shane carded his fingers through Ilya's hair. "I need you to take care of yourself, okay?"

"Okay."

"Part of that needs to be telling me when you're not doing well."

"Who says I'm not doing well?"

"After last night? Most of the internet."

Ilya stood up and took a small step back from Shane, but Shane grabbed his hand to keep him from moving too far. "The internet doesn't know me."

"I know you. I'm not sure you're doing that well."

"Shane. I am better than I ever have been. I was having fun and got a little out of control. I am sorry to you. I will apologize to the team."

"Promise?"

"Promise." Ilya tipped forward against Shane again and started kissing his neck. Shane grabbed Ilya's hair and tried to pull Ilya away. "Not the time for this."

"Why not?"

The doorbell rang before Shane could answer. There weren't that many people who had the ability to get past their gate without one of them being actively involved. Shane banged his head against Ilya's shoulder three times. "I've been ignoring my mom's texts all day."

"I'll get the door. It's my fault they're here."

"Ilya!" he heard his mom exclaim as soon as the door opened. "Are you okay?"

"How you doing, kiddo?" his dad asked.

"Fine, fine. Tired. Come in, Shane is in the kitchen."

Shane ignored the questioning look his mom shot him from behind Ilya as they all walked into the kitchen. "Lunch anyone?"

"We ate," his dad said, "but we hadn't heard from either of you today and wanted to check in."

"Deadspin is reporting rumors that you will be a healthy scratch tonight."

"Yes, the rumors are true. Learned my lesson though, won't party like I'm in my 20s next time."

"Ilya," his dad said softly, "are you okay?"

"I'm fine. Tired. Big night, you saw the pictures." Ilya held his phone in the air. "I have to go call coach. Thanks for checking in."

The three of them watched as Ilya walked down the hall into the office and closed the door.

"What the hell happened?" his mom asked spinning to look at Shane, the minute the door clicked shut.

Shane did his best not to fold into himself under her scrutiny. "You heard him, he just got a little carried away last night."

"But being scratched? For a few, frankly invasive, pictures? That doesn't seem very fair. There were far worse pictures released a couple of times when he was in Boston, he never got scratched then."

Shane sighed. "It's not because of the pictures. He skipped morning skate."

"He what?"

"I woke him up, we talked about the pictures, and he went back to sleep."

"Shane," his mom said, sounding appalled.

"He got home really late, he was tired."

"Shane." His dad was more subdued.

"He's allowed to have fun. After so many years feeling miserable, he gets to enjoy himself sometimes."

"This isn't like him," his mom said.

"I have it under control."

"What is it, exactly, that you have under control?" his mom asked.

"You don't have to have it under control," his dad said, "we can help. We want to help."

"He's fine. If you don't need anything else, I have to eat. I still have a game tonight." 

—

Troy Barrett

Just now

Shane: Can you go to lunch with Ilya and Young and Haas?

Troy: are you inviting me to someone elses lunch?

Shane: I was invited too but I have a meeting with my mom for a sponsor thing.

Troy: its lunch between practice and a game, how much trouble could he get in?

Shane: probably not that much. But I don't really want to find out.

Troy: fair

Troy: ill go

Shane: great. I'll send him to Harris's office to get you before they leave

Troy: how do you know thats where i am?

Shane: Is that a serious question? 

—

Shane felt Ilya sit on the bed behind him. "Are you asleep yet?" Ilya whispered.

"No," Shane snapped, "but I'm trying to be."

"You know what will help you sleep?"

"Ilya, if you say an orgasm one more time, I swear to god. Is the other bed not far enough away? Do I have to remove you from the room?"

"It's scientifically proven."

Their season closer was tomorrow. They were in the playoffs regardless, but a win could guarantee them home ice and Shane didn't want to lose that. He needed to get some fucking sleep.

He huffed, ignored Ilya, and grabbed his phone.

Troy Barrett

Just now

Shane: are you sharing a room?

Troy: no

Shane: I'm sorry to ask this, but can you come share with me and give your room to Ilya? We have two beds

Shane: He won't stop trying to have sex with me and i just want to sleep.

Troy: that doesn't sound good

Shane: Not in a creepy way

Shane: He's just persistent. And very awake.

Troy: room?

Shane: 814

Shane put his phone down and got out of bed. "Troy is going to swap rooms with you." He walked around the room making a pile of some sweats and a t-shirt, toiletry bag, phone charger. "I wish you would sleep, but he doesn't have a roommate so you can do whatever you want all night."

Ilya's face dropped. "Shane. I'm sorry. I didn't mean to- I just want you and you are lying there in bed so pretty and- I'm sorry."

There was a knock on the door. "I love you," Shane said, taking Ilya's face in his hands and kissing him. "I am not mad at you. But I need to sleep and you need to sleep and it doesn't seem like that's happening if we're in the same place tonight."

"I love you, too," Ilya said softly; he looked like a kicked puppy. He picked up the pile Shane made for him and walked out the door, letting Troy in as he went.

Troy handed Ilya the key for his room. "853. Good night, Ilya." Ilya just grunted in response. "He's not getting any better?" Troy asked, as soon as the door had clicked shut behind Ilya.

Shane looked out the peep hole at Ilya's back, retreating down the hall. "It's worse, I think."

"Whatever you need, man. I'm here for you, the team is here, Harris is here."

"Yeah, thanks." Shane flopped back into bed. "I don't want to disturb him during the playoffs. Just have to make it two more months."

"Are you sure waiting that long is a good idea?"

"No. But I have no fucking clue what to do anyway. Maybe I'll figure it out by then."

It took Shane awhile to fall asleep. He couldn't stop seeing the look on Ilya's face and ruminating over how to figure out what he was supposed to do about the situation. He woke up exhausted and with a headache.

Troy was still sleeping, but the second key card to his room was right next to his phone. Shane grabbed it and slipped out. He went into Troy's room hoping he would find Ilya asleep as well — he always looked so peaceful and warm burritoed in the blankets. Shane could slide into bed with him and they could see about a morning orgasm instead. But when he opened the door, the room was empty and the bed was untouched. Fuck. Ilya's clothes from yesterday were puddled in the bathroom in front of the sink and the sweats were missing; his toiletry bag was on the counter, unopened. Shane unzipped it and moved shampoo and shaving supplies and toothpaste onto the counter to get to the Advil that Ilya won't go anywhere without anymore. When he opened the bottle, he didn't see the small, round, reddish brown tablets he was expecting but rather a mix of unfamiliar looking pills. A rock dropped into his stomach. He walked out of the bathroom in a daze and dumped the contents out on the desk; he sank into the chair. He pulled out his phone to search the markings on the pills, but he already knew what he was going to find.

He'll never forget the first time Ilya spoke about his mother. Accidentally swallowed a whole bottle of pills. The words played on repeat through his brain as he catalogued each tablet from Ilya's stash. Where did he even get these?

He sat there for fifteen minutes before he heard the beep of the lock and turned toward to door to watch Ilya walk in, sweaty and holding a bottle of water. He grinned when he saw Shane which made it easy to see the exact moment Ilya noticed what Shane had in front of him. Ilya stopped in his tracks and the grin dropped off his face. "Why do you have this?" Shane kept his voice measured, quiet. He didn't cry. He didn't shake Ilya. Didn't beg him to say it's anything other than what it looks like.

Ilya opened his mouth as if to answer, but stayed silent. "Ilya," Shane pleaded.

"It's just in case." Ilya was quiet too, matter of fact.

"In case what?"

"In case I need it to stop."

Shane barely made it to the bathroom before he threw up.

Chapter 3: Playoffs

Ilya followed Shane into the bathroom and crouched down, rubbing his back. "It's not what you think, sweetheart," he said, trying to break the tension that had settled around them, squeezing in. It was the wrong thing to say, apparently, because Shane sat down against the tub and looked at him with a mix of anger and sadness and disgust. All Ilya wanted to do was wipe that all away. Or crawl into a hole.

"It's really not," he spat out quickly. "It's just a backup." He switched into Russian instinctively. He barely had words for this in his first language, never mind trying to conceptualize it in English. "It's - I never planned to use it. I mean, I didn't have an actual plan. It was just there in case. Like a security blanket. I used to think about how Mama felt and now I know. I saw them and I needed them. Do you know how good it feels to know you can leave if you need to? Because there is a way out. She took it, she left because I made it so there wasn't anything better for her, but I don't actually want to leave. Don't want to leave you. And things are so good right now, but maybe part of that is knowing the option is there for when I'm too much like I was for her." Shane was staring at his lips, and Ilya could see the wheels in his brain turning as Shane tried to parse what he was saying. He had been speaking way too fast for Shane to pick up more than every fourth word.

"I wouldn't do that to you," he said, more slowly.

"Do you say-" Shane tried in Russian, but cut himself off, shaking his head. "Are you saying I'm the only thing keeping you alive?"

"No," Ilya said. Lied. Maybe. He didn't know anymore. "I feel better than I ever have."

"Then why?" Shane motioned out the door of the bathroom, toward the desk. He looked ten seconds away from crying. "I'm sorry, Ilya. I don't understand."

Ilya slid the rest of the way onto the floor. His feet were curled awkwardly under the sink, his head in Shane's lap. Shane's hands settled on his waist and in his hair automatically. It was always easier for him to have these conversations like this — attached to Shane like an anchor without having to look at him.

He was so, so tired and he wanted it to stop, but he didn't want to leave Shane. "I don't think I do either," he said carefully, each word deliberate.

Shane's hand lifted from his waist, and Shane took a deep shuddering breath. Ilya took Shane's hand when he put it back down, wiped the tears off, and tucked it around his chest.

 

He lost track of time, crammed on the floor of the small hotel bathroom, only surfacing when the door to the room opened. "I'm covering my eyes until you confirm you're not fucking in here," Troy said. Ilya could hear the smile in his voice, so in contrast towhat he was about to walk in on.

"We're not," Shane said, flat.

Ilya heard Troy's footsteps come to a halt in the doorway of the bathroom. He kept his eyes shut; they must have looked ridiculous.

"Um," Troy started, sounding out of place in what was supposed to be his hotel room. "I was just going to get some clothes so I can get something to eat before we head to the rink for skate. I'll just grab my bag and go back to your room."

"Can you stay here for a few minutes?" Shane asked, gently guiding Ilya to sit while Shane stood. "I need to talk to Coach." Troy nodded as Shane walked out into the room. Ilya could hear him sweeping the pills off the desk into his little bottle.

"Shane?" Ilya asked, though he didn't know what his question was supposed to be. He didn't want to do the wrong thing and have Shane look at him like that again.

Shane reappeared in the bathroom door. "I'll be back soon. Stay with Troy, okay?" Ilya nodded. "Don't leave him alone," Shane said to Troy. His eyes fell on Ilya's razor, sitting among the contents of Ilya's dopp kit strewn across the counter. He shoved everything back in the bag, zipped it, and picked it up. "Not even in the bathroom. No closed doors."

"Okay," Troy said, drawing the word into a question, at the same time Ilya protested, "Shane!" But one look from Shane, the tortured look that Ilya couldn't stop from forcing onto Shane's face this morning, and Ilya just nodded.

"How about we sit somewhere more comfortable, Roz?" Troy said, once the door had clicked shut behind Shane.

Ilya sighed. "Okay." At least Troy wasn't asking questions. He leaned back on the bed he hadn't tried to sleep in while Troy flipped through channels on the TV. He landed on Supernatural. It was always fucking Supernatural. Ilya will never understand who is watching Supernatural this early in the morning other than professional athletes catching it in 20-minute increments over the course of a career.

"We've got your back, Rozy," Troy said quietly, while the hot one did something impulsive and stupid. "Whatever it is, we've got your back."

—

Ilya blinked and he was sitting in Galina's waiting room. He remembered a fight about what it would look like if he was scratched again only two weeks after the last time, if both he and Shane were scratched tonight. "It's already done, Ilya. Deal with it," Shane had yelled, ending that one. There was another fight when Shane found out he hadn't seen Galina for months. There must have been a plane in there somewhere. Because now, eight hours after Shane discovered his biggest fuck-up and five hours before the season-closing game he won't be playing in, he was watching as Galina came around the corner into the waiting room and saw Shane sitting next to him. Two worlds coexisting that he never, ever wanted to meet. "This is Shane," he said, voice flat, before Galina could open her mouth.

Shane stood, hand extended. "Nice to meet you," he said, shaking her hand.

"Likewise." She turned back to Ilya, "ready?"

Ilya stood with a sigh. "Shane wants to come for the beginning."

Galina looked between the two of them and settled her eyes on Ilya. "Is that what you want?"

No, Ilya thought; he ignored the question. "He doesn't trust me to tell you what happened this morning."

"Let's move this discussion into my office." She led the way. Ilya followed and tried not to flinch when Shane rubbed his lower back as they walked. "So," she said, when they were all in seats, "Ilya, do you want to tell me what Shane thinks you won't?"

"It's not a big deal," he lied.

"Is it okay with you if Shane tells me?"

Ilya shrugged. "It's okay."

Shane took out his phone and started reading off it. "This morning we were at a hotel in Philadelphia, and-"

"What are you doing?" Ilya cut him off.

"I wrote it down so I won't get it wrong. I don't know all of the words."

Ilya rolled his eyes. "We all speak English."

"I know. But this is the place where you get to use your language. You don't want me here, but I can leave you Russian."

Ilya slumped forward and hid his face in his hands. He didn't deserve Shane. He waved Shane on.

"I needed some ibuprofen and Ilya has been carrying a bottle with him all year. I opened the bottle and it was full of opioids." Ilya risked a peek through his fingers, Galina's face was carefully controlled as always. "He said he had them in case he 'needs it to stop.'"

"Do you still have the pills?" The question was directed to him, but Ilya didn't answer.

"I dispose them before we come back to Canada," Shane said, tripping over the Russian a little, now that he doesn't have his pre-written speech.

"Anything else?"

Shane stood and walked toward the door. "I let you be alone now." He stopped to squeeze Ilya's shoulder before he walked out the door. "Ilya tells you I hope. He is…" Shane switched to English, "off. All year, something has been off. I gave Ilya a list, but-" He let go of Ilya's shoulder and motioned toward the waiting room with his head. "I'll be there when you finish."

The door closed behind him. "He won't let me be alone," Ilya complained. "I can't even piss in peace."

"Sounds like he has a good reason." Ilya huffed. Half of his communication in the past eight hours had been various types of exhalations. Galina opened a file drawer, flipping through the folders until she found the one she wanted and placed a paper from it on her desk. "Have you wished you were dead or wished you could go to sleep and not wake up?"

"Not anytime recently," he said, finally an answer he can feel confident in. He'd wished he could go to sleep, some days when he was lying awake or doing bicep curls at four in the morning, but he had always wanted to wake up.

"Have you had thoughts of killing yourself?"

"I've been walking around with a lethal amount of pills."

"That's not an answer to my question."

"Of course I have," Ilya yelled. "Why else would I be walking around with them?"

"In the past month?"

"Off and on, since-"

"Since?"

"Since I started collecting them. It was September, maybe, October. Sometime at the beginning of the season."

"Tell me what you mean by collecting them," she continued, and for the second time that day, Ilya found himself on the wrong side of an interrogation.

"Look," Ilya said eventually, when he was tired of recounting his trips through medicine cabinets, trying to explain what the hell Shane meant when he said Ilya was "off," and putting words to the million thoughts he has flying through his head these days, "I know it looks bad. I know. It was stupid for many, many reasons. But I don't want to die. I feel better than I ever have."

"You keep saying that, that you feel better than you ever have."

"It's true."

Galina looked at the papers on her desk before turning back to Ilya. "Your team doctor is still prescribing your meds?" Ilya nodded. "I'd like to set up a meeting for all of us as soon as possible. I'm okay with you going home tonight as long as we get an appropriate safety plan in place."

"I'm sure Shane's parents are at our house as we speak setting up an empty room for Shane to lock me in." It was sarcasm laced with bitterness so thick, Ilya could barely recognize his own voice. "Sorry." He sighed. Again. "Please, just, call Shane back in for planning. I don't want to have to repeat it all." Galina nodded. "And make him use English."

 

Twenty-four hours after The Hotel Incident, he was sitting in a Centaur's conference room with Galina, Terry, and a psychiatrist one of them had magic-ed up from somewhere, all of them watching him as he filled out about a dozen questionnaires. Shane was with Wiebe in his office down the hall having who-knows-what kind of conversation about him. He was trying his best to look engaged but he really only cared about one thing.

"Are you going to let me play?" Ilya asked Terry.

"This is outside my scope, Ilya. I want to keep you safe and I'm going to defer to the experts in the room and follow their recommendations."

"Based on our conversation yesterday," Galina said, "hockey is what we would call a buffer for Ilya. It is working to prevent suicidality in him. I'm not a psychiatrist, but if we can safely adjust medication in an outpatient setting, my opinion is that continuing to play will be helpful."

"Ilya," Dr. Shirazi said, "do you have any plans to obtain more pills?"

"No."

"Any plans to harm or kill yourself in any other way?"

"No."

"So, I agree. Based on his answers now, what you've told me about your conversation yesterday, and the screening forms he filled out, he is not presently a danger to himself. The current medication is no longer clinically appropriate, but we can make changes outpatient as long as he is checking in with one or both of you daily and me weekly."

Ilya let his head drop to the table, enjoying the feel of the cold wood against his forehead, as all of the tension he was holding dropped out of his body at the knowledge that he will be able to play. He could hear them talking about plans, but he couldn't follow the conversation anymore. "Galina, please, I can't-" he said, half muffled by the table.

"I'll get Shane."

"Thank you."

He felt Shane's hand on his shoulder when he took the seat next to him. He relaxed into its warmth and the familiar cadence of Shane's speech joining in the discussion. Still, even as he appreciated Shane's presence, it was humiliating — sitting here in a room while all these medical professionals and his husband discussed him and his broken brain like he wasn't even there. He wondered what his father would say if he could see this.

—

Round one

Dr. Shirazi said things like "minimal changes" until playoffs are over. They would focus on getting him safely through the remainder of the post-season before they could think about long-term maintenance. Her first priority was making sure he slept.

He took the pill she gave him to sleep and barely made it out of bed the next morning. He dragged himself through practice and napped in the car on the way home where he promptly threw the pills in the trash and stormed out to the backyard for a cigarette. It was last fall all over again. It was last summer all over again. A year of drugs and therapy and Shane always watching just to end up at the exact same place he started. He could feel Shane's eyes on him through the window so he smoked another cigarette.

When he went back inside, the bottle was back on the counter and Shane was nowhere to be seen.

 

"What are you going to do if we lose tonight?" Shane asked, as they walked the halls to the locker room for their first playoff game against Carolina.

Ilya rolled his eyes. "What do you think, Hollander? Trying to make sure I'm not going to go on a bender and get splashed across Twitter again?"

Ilya watched as Shane shrunk in on himself, just a little. "Will you want to wake up tomorrow if we lose?" Shane asked, voice small. Ah. There it is, he thought.

"Sounds like a question you'd ask a crazy person," Ilya said. He opened the door to the locker room and walked inside, leaving Shane behind to watch him go.

 —

Round two

There was an irony, Ilya thought, looking at the line of bottles in front of him, in the number of pills they were giving him to keep him from taking pills. If this keeps up, he was going to need a giant pill organizer like Scott Hunter must have.

They are doing something at least — his brain has finally shut up — but the quiet has given him too much time to think on the four flights they have already taken back and forth to Detroit.

He hadn't left Russia much before the first time he'd gone to North America. It took almost a full day to get there. They'd flown from Moscow to…Frankfurt? maybe. Somewhere in Germany. Then to Toronto. Then finally to Regina where he realized his ten years of English lessons had not fully prepared him for the rapid pace of native speakers.

It had been exciting, then, to be on a plane, a new passport with its fancy Canadian visa clutched in his hand. It felt like a ticket to freedom. That same passport, or at least the current version of it, now hung around his neck like a noose until he could get a new, Canadian one. He couldn't go back regardless — the whole of the Atlantic, and Europe, and Russian politics a giant chasm between him and his mother.

Planes were mundane now. No longer something exciting holding the promise of a new life, just the means of a very long commute.

Ilya looked out the window, avoiding looking at Shane sitting next to him even as the heat of Shane's hand burned through his thigh. They were making their descent into Ottawa, close enough to the ground for Ilya to see the cars driving around and pulling into tiny toy houses. Was it more or less likely for your plane to crash if you'd already been almost in one? Was there a way to get in a car wreck that would take out Ilya but spare Shane and finally let him be free?

Did Mama ever wish a car would drive up on the sidewalk so she wouldn't have to do it herself?

 

"What are you going to do if we lose tonight?" Shane asked when they got to the rink for game five.

"Pack my fucking bag to go back to fucking Detroit then take all the drugs I'm supposed to take so I pass out."

Shane's poker face had really improved; he didn't even flinch when Ilya went off on him anymore. "You're going to have to pack a bag to go back to Detroit either way," he pointed out. Ilya waved his hand dismissively. "Do you want to wake up tomorrow?"

"No," Ilya snapped and stormed across the parking lot without bothering to see Shane's reaction.

He got the expected summons to Terry's office shortly after Shane slunk into the locker room. He was prepared; he'd gotten very good at picking apart his thoughts to distinguish between thinking about killing himself, wanting to kill himself, and making a plan to kill himself. He knew all the words now. "I have no plan," he said to Terry, before he could even open his mouth. "I have no 'active specific thoughts.' I have no 'intent.' I have no pills. I am just sick of Detroit. I will say same thing to Galina and Dr. Shirazi tomorrow."

"Okay then," Terry said.

 

Shane sat next to him on the flight back to Detroit. He didn't know why. He wasn't exactly a good travel companion these days. He wasn't a good any type of companion. He wasn't good.

 —

Round three

"You spoke with Dr. Shirazi yesterday, right?" Galina asked through the video call they'd set up.

Ilya leaned back on his bed in his hotel room in Philadelphia. There was something, poetic maybe, about having this conversation back where it started, though Shane had made sure they were not on the eighth floor. "Mmmhmm." He nodded.

"Did she make any changes?"

Ilya looked at the ceiling. He couldn't keep up with any more changes. "No. It's been a week now I think? on this one. She wants to see if things keep getting better."

"So you're seeing improvement?"

"I guess. Maybe. Yes."

"What does improvement mean to you?"

"I didn't wish for the plane to crash on the way here."

"You sound dismissive of that."

"Not wishing for a plane to crash is a very low bar. That's daily life for most people."

"Don't measure against most people, measure against yourself. How is Shane?" Galina continued when Ilya didn't respond. "Are you continuing to get support from him?"

"Shane is too good for me," Ilya said, quickly.

"What do you mean by that?"

"I snap at him, ignore him. I am a big, broken, crazy mess and he just keeps being there. What am I doing for him besides dragging him into this mess? Shouldn't he be with someone who can make him happy?"

"You don't think you make him happy?"

"Would you be happy with someone like me?"

"Would you be happy with Shane if he were going through something like you are going through now?"

"I would be happy with Shane no matter what."

"So why do you think it's different for him?"

 

"I owe you an apology," Ilya said, when Shane came back from his walk 52 minutes after Ilya's appointment had started. "Many apologies, actually."

"You don't, Ilya," Shane said softly.

"I have been acting…" Ilya waved his hands around in the air, unsure of the right word to describe the situation. He gave up trying to find it. "It's not fair, that I've been taking it out on you."

"That's what I'm here for." Ilya's heart broke. It wasn't what Shane was here for at all. Shane slipped off his pants and draped them over the chair. "Come lie with me?"

Ilya followed Shane into bed and let Shane pull him in, holding Ilya against his chest from behind. It was the most he'd let Shane touch him in weeks, always staying carefully on his side of the bed. Now, he melted into the warmth surrounding him. He rolled over so they were face to face and captured Shane's mouth in a kiss, sliding his tongue along Shane's lips. Shane parted his mouth, letting Ilya in, but pulled back quickly. "I wasn't trying to-"

"I know," Ilya said. "I just miss you. It's my own fault we've been apart."

"Ilya-"

"No, Shane. You have been amazing, I have been shit. But I will be better now."

 

"What are you going to do if we lose tonight?" Shane asked, when they were lying together, Ilya using Shane's naked body as a blanket since the actual covers were on the floor.

"Maybe we can come back and do this again?"

"I don't think my legs will be up for it after a hockey game."

"So whiny, the minute you're asked to do any work. Fine. We can wait until morning."

Shane smiled against his lips. "So does that mean you want to wake up tomorrow?"

Ilya nodded and kissed him again.

 —

Finals

At some point in the last decade, Ilya had learned the sound of Shane's footsteps. When he heard Shane walking up behind him, he linked his ankle behind the leg of the chair closest to his and dragged it closer. The scrape of the chair against the concrete of the floor disrupted the quiet that had settled around him, street noise only occasionally breaking through from 10 stories below.

"I don't think we're supposed to be here," Shane said as he dropped into the chair.

Ilya shrugged and put the cigarette he wasn't smoking back into the carton. "If they don't want us here, they would do something to close it off." The small bar area on the hotel roof closed early, even though the late spring night was still comfortable. If you looked west, you could still see a hint of light behind the mountains.

"Mama loved the mountains," Ilya said, not taking his eyes off the shadows of the rocky peaks. Shane reached out and Ilya let him interlace their fingers. "She lived near them, when she was growing up. She took us once or twice to see where she grew up, visit family. But we never went back after she died."

He had been so close to where she grew up when he was in Sochi, an extra ache that pulsed under the shame he had felt whenever his father looked his way.

"I don't even know if her parents are still alive. This," he said, rolling his cross between the fingers of his free hand. "This is the only piece of her I had left for so long. And I always wanted more.

"I don't know what she took. Or how she got them. But I always imagined they brought her so much comfort." He wiped at his eyes with the back of his hand and saw, out of the corner of his eye, Shane do the same. "I think they did. They did for me. I think I know everything that was going through her head now. So that's a piece of her I will always have too.

"I really thought I was fixed. I felt so good but my brain was…loud. All year. So even though it started because I was sad, I still needed to know I could make it stop. I just want to be better. I want it to be over."

A car honked. The distant sound of drunk hockey fans chanting "go Avs, go!" stretched up to them through the night.

Shane squeezed his hand. "I don't think there's an over for you," he said carefully. "I think it's only over if you kill yourself." Ilya forced himself to swallow around the lump in his throat. "You have already proven you are strong enough to fight that."

A sob escaped him.  "My mama-"

Shane cut him off, knowing. "Your mother wasn't weak, Ilya. I'm sure- I'm sure she fought just as hard as you are, but she didn't have the resources you do. God, Ilya, sometimes I think about how one change somewhere in the past — Ottawa doesn't sign you and we see each other even less, there's no Russian-speaking therapist, there's no plane crash to get me to get my head out of my ass, Scott Hunter doesn't kiss his boyfriend on TV — one change and you would already be dead. Don't you think your mother would want you to take advantage of everything you have — everything she didn't have — to let you continue to fight?"

"I'm trying."

"You're doing." Shane tugged on his hand until Ilya stood up. He let Shane pull him down into his lap, strong arms wrapping around him. He pressed his face into Shane's hair, surrounded by the scent of the shampoo from Ball Arena, and let Shane rock him back and forth.

When he lifted his head, the rest of the light had disappeared from the sky. "Come on," Shane said, prompting him to stand. "Bed. We have an early flight."

 

Shane put the car in park and took Ilya's hand. "This could be it," he said. "Game five, could be the end of the first season we play together. How do you think it went?"

Ilya turned to look at Shane just in time to see his lips twitch as he tried to hold back a smile. Ilya laughed. He tried to stop himself, putting his hand over his mouth. But then Shane started laughing too, so he let himself go. He sat with his husband in their car, parked in the back corner of the Centaurs' rink lot, and laughed, tears rolling down their cheeks and losing it over absolutely nothing.

"Eight out of ten," Ilya said when they calmed down. "Room for improvement."

"An eight, huh?"

"Well, we're both still here, aren't we? And no one put any torrid pictures of us on the internet this year. So, success."

"There were the tequila pictures."

"Seven out of ten," Ilya amended. "Still pretty good." They sat in silence; Ilya counted down in his head waiting for the question Shane had asked before every game throughout the playoffs.

"What are you going to do if we lose today?"

"Go home, get into bed with you, sleep, wake up tomorrow, and get ready to fly back to Denver."

"You'll want to wake up tomorrow?"

"Yes, Shane." Ilya brought Shane's hand to his mouth and pressed his lips to Shane's knuckles. He'd gone two weeks now without a no.

"And if we win?"

Ilya raised one eyebrow. This was a new question, but, he supposed, this was also the first time they would be playing a game that could be the last one of the season. "You don't think that will jinx us?"

"I think you're more important than a possible jinx." Shane looked over his shoulder out the rear window, confirming they were alone. "But maybe don't tell anyone else I asked you."

Ilya smiled; he rested his head against the seat, closed his eyes, and scanned his body. Everything was sore. Muscles were pushed to their limit, bruises were layered over bruises leaving his skin a mottled combination of yellow, green, and purple. Even his bones ached. His brain hurt.

He'd won a cup before. Drank the champagne and the vodka, stayed out partying all night, woke up hungover with his mouth tasting like something had died in there and enjoyed every second of it. If you'd asked him a year ago, even two months ago, he would have outlined something very similar in response to Shane's question. That felt like a lifetime ago, now. "I want to go home, get into bed with you, sleep, wake up tomorrow, and enjoy the fact that I do not have to fly back to Denver."

"That's all?" Shane asked.

"Yes. That's all." It was probably not what Shane wanted to hear. Even Shane Hollander wants to go out and celebrate winning the Stanley Cup. Ilya felt the weight of disappointing Shane once again slam into him. He was disgusted with the selfishness that was asking Shane to forgo that celebration because Ilya is broken inside.

"Okay," Shane said, like Ilya had just told him nothing more notable than that he was going to stop at the grocery store on the way home.

"Okay?"

Shane let go of his hand and opened the door. He nudged Ilya toward his own door. "Get out of the car." Shane met him on the passenger side and pressed Ilya against the door — not passionate, just full body, head-to-toe contact. He kissed Ilya, chastely, lovingly. "If we win tonight, I can't think of anything better to do than be attached to your side. No matter where that is. Got it?"

Ilya wrapped his arms around Shane and rested his head on Shane's shoulder. It was hot enough in the afternoon sun that he could feel sweat start to prick up where they were pressed together. He nodded, letting his lips brush over Shane's neck as he did. "Yes."

 

They went straight to the bedroom when they got home. Shane face-planted into bed while Ilya took his pills. When he climbed in next to Shane, Shane immediately wrapped himself around Ilya like an octopus. Ilya drifted to sleep with the weight of Shane holding him safely in place. He woke up the next morning and he continued.