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The game had been awful. It was easily the worst Ilya had performed at a home game since being signed to Boston. Possibly ever – even including the humiliating loss at the Sochi Olympics three years ago. He had missed passes, barely made a single shot on net, and lost the puck in stupid ways more in keeping with the junior leagues than the NHL. Ilya knew he should probably start taking the drills a bit more seriously at team practice again, instead of just messing around and treating it like a joke. He knew he should start showing up for optional sessions more. He knew it when he heard a not-so-little voice begin to echo in his head all day, every day, for the first time in years.
Lazy.
It was the same voice that had haunted him since childhood, always loudest in the face of his failures and imperfection.
Ilya’s grip tightened on the steering wheel. Pain flared into his knuckles. He welcomed it, and gripped tighter still.
—————
It all started about two weeks ago.
Three, if Ilya was being honest. It was when he had last left Montreal to fly back to Boston, after a stolen one hour and fifty-six minutes with Shane that left him feeling seedy. His hands shook as Shane smiled a soft and sad goodbye and the door closed softly behind him.
But a week later, he knew he had completely unravelled. He constantly felt as though he was wading through water, his limbs like lead, every movement requiring considerable effort. Even breathing stopped being instinctual, the chore of sucking in thick air becoming exhausting in itself.
Sleep offered him no respite. They weren’t nightmares exactly, just flashes of things he wishes he had never seen. Paling skin and limp arms. Empty pill bottles against linoleum floors. A motionless body sprawled on the ice. Each morning, he blinked awake with the pit in his stomach somehow more cavernous than the night before, eyelids heavy and weariness firmly settled into his bones.
Somewhere around a week ago, the sadness burnt itself out. He was coming to practice on autopilot, hearing his voice outside his body like it belonged to someone else. Even the misery had gotten fed up with his company, and now he felt nothing at all. Somehow, that was harder – that nothingness where the pain and rage had once been sitting, now just a vacant cavity in his chest.
His eyes flickered to the clock on the dashboard. Almost four a.m.
—————
His teammates definitely had the right to be annoyed. Ilya’s absence in the third period resulted in the winning goal for Florida, but he’d been playing like shit anyway before he was ejected. When his line returned to the bench, his coach had sneered at him to get his head in the game. Sure, whatever. Nothing he hadn’t heard before.
Ilya didn’t even stay for the team talk after the game. He murmured an excuse about needing to get some ice for his hand, or some painkillers for his face, or some water to rinse his mouth of the dried blood from his split lip. He knew he was being childish. He could see Coach glaring at him, Connors muttering something under his breath, Marleau furrowing his brow as he opened his mouth before shutting it quickly, deciding it wasn’t worth speaking to Ilya right now.
‘Just let him go,’ he heard as he walked down the hall.
By the start of the third period, Ilya had scarcely even been on the ice anymore. The buzz of the crowd was barely audible, his skates drifting on the ice, creating patterns in a blur that felt like he was hovering just outside of himself, watching his movements in slow motion.
That’s when he chose the towering defenceman in the corner.
He didn’t even know his name. But over, and over, and over again he chose him. A body check into the boards, disguisable as chasing the puck to everyone unable to see the flash in his eyes. Jamming his twig right between the second and third ribs, quickly enough that it was imperceptible to the linesmen. Spitting out a cutting insult, close and hot into that guy's face.
Finally, finally, the gloves dropped.
“You want to fucking go?” Ilya heard himself challenge. “Come on then, let’s fucking go.”
Ilya raised his hands and thrust himself forward, propelled by a newfound hunger to feel something. Anything. The first punch landed square on Ilya’s cheekbone and it seared a white hot heat beneath his skin. He leaned into the rush in his chest. One hand found the defenceman’s jersey, yanking him closer, the other arm throwing swing after swing after swing. The linesmen had to hold him still and haul him back from the other player who now looked dazed.
Blood trickled around his eye socket and settled on the curve of his cheekbone, his knuckles throbbed, and his heart thumped fiercely in his chest. The fight was nonsensical to everyone on the ice, but the crowd were howling, and for those precious few seconds Ilya felt something.
The referee’s arm flew up. Game misconduct. Ilya didn’t posture or celebrate towards the home crowd. He just skated towards the tunnel alone, relieved that for the moment he didn’t feel like a ghost.
—————
Ilya had given up on sleeping somewhere around one a.m. Logically he knew he hadn’t been in bed for long, but the tossing and turning was driving him crazy. He felt like his limbs were in the way, like he was tangled and drowning in his bedsheets. He flung the duvet to one side and winced as he swung his legs over the edge of the bed to sit himself up, running his hands through his unwashed, matted curls. He rubbed his palms over his face, the heels of his hands pressing into his eyelids as his fingertips settled onto his temples.
When he blinked his eyes open, they settled on the backpack next to the bedroom door. He had dropped it there weeks ago and barely unpacked, with the exception of removing the dirty laundry. He sucked in a steeling breath. Before he knew it he was throwing on his clothes and stuffing essentials into his backpack, wallet and keys in hand.
His eyes dropped down to the dresser. His fingers only hesitated for a fraction of a second before he reached into the top drawer for his passport, and stuffed it into the front pocket of his bag.
The cold air hit his face as he stepped outside, and in any other circumstance it might have snapped him out of this stupor he was in. The darkness of the early hours was leaking into the clouds like ink pooling and clouding in water, looming over him as he crossed his driveway.
It was edging ever deeper into winter in Boston. The change of the seasons never used to affect him – he used to joke that the temperatures were tropical compared to Moscow – but now he felt his skin go taut and his hair stand on end as the breeze brushed his neck.
The car door shut with a thud behind him and the rumble of the engine kicked in before he fully registered that he had turned the ignition on. As he threw his phone into the centre console, it momentarily flooded the interior with light. Ilya checked the screen reflexively.
No new messages.
Of course not – what more was there to say? He felt his stomach flip anyway at the sight of the blank wallpaper. A shot of a sunrise over the lake taken that summer. The onscreen clock read 01:11, and Ilya cursed himself for immediately recalling Svetlana’s coked-up ramblings about angel numbers, hating that he’d for some reason committed that to memory.
Ilya flipped the phone over and muttered to himself. “Blyat.”
He pulled out onto the road, and began to drive. He couldn’t let himself think about where he was aiming for. He just called it ‘north’, and let himself be carried there.
⊰══════════⊱
Off the ice, there were very few things Shane prided himself on. He had spent his whole life laser-focused on hockey; on learning the sport, on excelling at it, on being the best. It had consumed so much of his time that he’d never given anything else much attention – he’d never needed to.
Until Rozanov. Until Ilya.
He had spent the best part of a decade cataloguing everything about him. Unknowingly at first, then shamefully, eventually like his life depended on it. Maybe it did, because he couldn’t stop this awful, horrible, sickening feeling that everything was falling apart.
Shane wasn’t stupid, and he wasn’t blind to the people he cared about. There was something wrong with Ilya.
His beautiful, talented Ilya. Ilya, who always called him solnyshko – sunshine – like he wasn’t the one everyone gravitated towards and orbited around whenever he was in a room.
Shane had known for weeks that something wasn’t right. He had known since the last time they were together. It was hurried – always hurried – and Ilya had barely even looked at him.
They had met at a hotel near the rink, because they didn’t even have enough time to meet at Shane’s apartment before the Raiders were heading back to Boston for their next game, against Toronto. It felt sleazy, more reminiscent of when they were able to kid themselves and each other that it was only sex. The only saving grace was that it wasn’t the kind of place that you could pay for a room by the hour. Not that Shane ever would, but still.
Shane had tried to convince himself that’s why everything had felt off. Ilya had buried his head in the crook of his neck, the precious space between his shoulder and his cheek that he just slotted so perfectly into, but he didn’t pepper his neck with gentle kisses or teasing tugs of skin between his teeth. He just groaned, spitting out the occasional Russian expletive, and drove into Shane over and over like a man possessed.
When they had finally kissed it was a clash of teeth and tongue that Shane tried to put down to weeks of pent up energy, tried to label it as hot or passionate, but it wasn’t any of those things. It was desperate in a way that was ill-fitting, like Ilya was searching for something that he couldn’t find.
Ilya had rolled off him before his breathing had evened out, planting himself against the headboard and staring out of the window as he pulled Shane onto his chest. He had run his fingers through Shane’s hair in slow, thoughtless strokes, but instead of soothing him, it felt like he was being held at arm’s length.
Shane knew what goodbyes felt like now. He knew that telltale flop in his stomach when he realised the clock had almost run down, and the horrible dull ache in his chest when one of them said it out loud. He knew the emptiness that took over his whole body in the hours that followed. But this was the first time that Shane felt broken by it, and he wasn’t even sure it was the goodbye that did it. He felt the tears balancing on his lashline as Ilya pressed his lips against his temple, chaste and awkward. He didn’t meet Shane’s eyes when he muttered ‘love you’. Instead they stayed perfectly trained on his shoes, even as he walked along the corridor to the elevator.
Shane closed the door and pressed his back against it, biting his lip and letting the tears fall freely into the silence of the hotel room. The sullied and crumpled sheets were the only sign Ilya had been there at all.
He knew something was wrong. He didn’t know what, wasn’t able to pinpoint it, but whatever it was made him feel sick to his stomach.
—————
The feeling didn’t go away. It just made itself at home deep in his gut, burrowing and gnawing, each and every day.
Shane had never been insecure, not really. He had been unsure, he had been jealous, and he had definitely been cautious, but insecurity was a new feeling. It was clouding his brain and clogging his lungs and he didn’t know how to shift it.
He tried to rationalise with himself. Ilya was busy, Ilya was tired, Ilya was distracted. He knew Ilya loved him, he still told him that every day, but was that enough?
It didn’t feel like it. Not with the way the calls were becoming infrequent, the text messages shorter, the stupid shared posts with ‘lol u’ tacked underneath now nonexistent. Shane hated the way it made him feel, hated the way it made him act.
Whenever Ilya cancelled a phone call, saying he was going to bed even though it wasn’t even ten o’clock yet, Shane found himself combing through Cliff Marleau’s social media, of all fucking people. He sat there looking for any glimpse of Ilya to prove he was lying to him, to confront him with evidence the next day. He never found one, but it didn’t stop him from looking.
His thumb had hovered over Svetlana’s contact information more than once. He had only met her briefly, an accidental crossover in Boston at the end of September, but he suspected she held the key to the hidden parts of Ilya that he hadn’t learned yet. But he also knew it was a betrayal of trust, and fucking weird, so he never dared to send her a message.
He needed to get over it. He needed to accept the cards he had been dealt. He was probably never going to be enough for Ilya Rozanov, and he was naive for ever thinking he could be. Maybe he had enjoyed the chase, or he had simply just imagined the end result to be better than what Shane could offer him. Maybe the danger wasn’t going to be worth it in the end, and Ilya didn’t know how to break it to him.
Shane was too chicken shit to confront him about it. He needed Ilya, had known it in his bones for years before he had dared to admit it aloud, and he would accept any scrap of him that he was offered for as long as he could. Even if it hurt this much, he knew it was nothing compared to what he would feel if he lost him entirely.
⊰══════════⊱
By almost four in the morning, Ilya was somewhere in Vermont. He remembered the sign sliding by, with its cursive font and ‘welcome’ plastered in large letters. He couldn’t quite remember how long ago that was. He drummed his fingers against the steering wheel, wincing as the swelling in his knuckles protested each movement. The pain was useful. It was keeping him awake, despite the white lines flashing past rhythmically making his eyes burn.
The mile markers counted down to towns he had never heard of, disappearing and being replaced with other cities before he had a chance to place them. The gas stations were vacant as he passed, the fluorescent lights over the forecourts illuminating nothing and no one. He briefly considered pulling into a rest stop. Just for a minute. He should probably think. Breathe. Consider where he was going. But he didn’t trust himself to turn the engine back on if he turned it off. So he kept going.
Ilya caught sight of himself in the rearview mirror. The dark rings under his eyes aged him, his face sunken and solemn. The dried blood sitting under his eyebrow, the blossoming bruising on his cheek and the shiny sliver of split skin on his lip, however, made him look like the brash player he was back in Moscow. The player that wanted to be feared so he wasn’t spoken to. The player who needed to hurl all the hurt and anger from home towards something or someone else.
He hadn’t been that person since before rookie season. Sure, he’d thrown gloves, and yeah, he’d made people regret their chirps towards him, but nothing like this.
It was coming back to him in flashes. The other player falling to the ice, helmet knocked loose, hands coming up to protect his face. But Ilya’s punches didn’t stop. He heard the whistle, the linesman calling out ‘knock it off, Rozanov, that’s enough.’ But it wasn’t enough. They’d had to physically drag him away, arms still swinging. It was probably going viral. People would have huddled in their respective locker rooms, asking ‘what the hell got into Rozanov?’
He had lost control. He had chosen to. He gave himself permission to be reckless, let himself get lost in it.
Fuck, he thought. This was fucking bad.
⊰══════════⊱
The Metros’ locker room was buzzing with energy when Shane came back from the showers. It was weird – their game against the Admirals wasn’t exactly good. They were still riding the high of their cup win last season, and Hunter’s away game curse was well and truly a thing of the past. The Metros had won, but only because Shane had put up a goal and an assist in the third period to secure it, determined to stop the game from going to overtime. He needed to get home, needed to try to speak to Ilya for the first time this week.
The win was fragile. Their performance left a lot to be desired, and it definitely didn’t warrant the level of jubilance that replaced the stilted conversation and awkward silence that held the space just minutes earlier.
“You okay, bud?” Hayden elbowed him gently.
His eyes were wide and worried, and Shane felt weirdly scrutinised as he towelled off his hair. Their friendship had been strained since Hayden found out about Ilya, and Shane felt guilty that he had let things slip away, but Hayden hadn’t exactly tried to make things normal, either.
“Sure. I mean, we won, right?” Shane shrugged. “Wasn’t our best game, but it’s the first time we’ve faced the Admirals this season. They’re the champions, it was always gonna be tough.”
Hayden winced. “Haven’t you—”
“Capitaine!” JJ’s voice boomed from across the room, cutting Hayden off. “You still look pissed off, you need to see this. It will make you feel better.”
He sauntered over with a cocksure smile, holding his phone up to Shane’s face.
The footage was shaky and pixelated in that telltale way that meant the person recording had zoomed in as far as their phone would let them. The names and numbers on the jerseys were blurred, but Shane would recognise Ilya anywhere. His arms were swinging wildly, gloves abandoned metres away, a trail of blood tracking from his eyebrow and along the curve of his face. Shane’s ears were ringing. All he could hear was JJ laughing, the words Rozanov and lost it and déjanté.
The video ended just as the linesman got his hands on Ilya's shoulders, much to the chagrin of the crowd. Shane didn't think they were quick enough. They should have stopped it sooner.
Ilya looked wild. Even in the poor quality footage, he could see it in the line of his back and the clench of his jaw. Shane had seen him fight before, spitting insults and throwing punches, but he had never seen him like that.
His hands shook as he pulled his phone out of his cubby, firing a few texts to Ilya as JJ went back to mocking him with the rest of the Metros.
“Shane.” Hayden glanced anxiously around the room, making sure everyone else was still distracted enough to not hear him whisper, “He's not like that with you, is he?”
Shane saw red. He closed his eyes, counted to five, and balled his hands into fists at his sides.
“Fuck you, Hayden.”
A good captain would have stayed to congratulate the team on their lacklustre win. But Shane didn’t have it in him. He just turned and left without saying goodbye.
—————
He couldn't bring himself to turn the news on when he got home. He knew what it would be. Journalists looking for an angle, looking for something sensationalist to pin on Ilya. He turned to the Internet instead, which was equally as questionable, but at least there were some fans on there; some people firmly in Ilya’s corner just like him.
He tried to ignore the captions and replies on Twitter as best he could anyway. He knew it was a cesspit, somewhere he tried to avoid outside of obligatory or contractual posts, but he needed to work out what the fuck had happened to Ilya. Within half an hour he had seen every single angle of the fight, from various vantage points, and he still felt none the wiser. He checked his messages again, now flagged as read, so he fired off another, begging for a response.
The fight made no sense. The other player – some Russian guy called Volkov, a recent call up from the AHL – had barely been near Ilya before it all started. He was bigger, but slower on his skates to match it. Ilya had skated right in front of him, barked something at him, baring his teeth as he ripped his gloves off. Everyone said he was feral, that he looked angry. They said it was frightening.
The last one was true, but only because of how lost Ilya looked. His hollow stare was haunting, even through a shitty phone camera. He had never seen him look like that, and it made his stomach twist uncomfortably, made him feel like bugs were crawling all over his skin.
His phone chimed with a message: another dismissal from Ilya. Another promise to speak another time. He knew not to push back. He had to let Ilya come to him in his own time, because any chasing would make him run and hide like a street cat; wry but flighty under too much attention. But Shane felt it then, that sinking feeling in his chest that this was probably about him.
He rejected a call from Hayden, put his phone on silent, and crawled into bed.
⊰══════════⊱
It was almost two a.m. before Ilya became faintly aware that Boston had fallen away behind him, the glow of the city fading to a blur and then into nothing. The road had widened, but the traffic had thinned in contrast, the tail lights that had been shrinking in his rearview now long-since lost into the night. He stopped at a red light, which felt ridiculous when he was the only one around, but he could hear an exasperated Canadian voice in his head begging him to drive safely, so he didn’t run it.
He checked his phone again, an automatic impulse. Nothing. It’s not like he expected anything, anyway. No one was to know that he was still up, driving because he couldn’t sleep and his bedroom felt like it was closing in on him.
He tapped on the screen again, pausing to unlock it fully just in case he had missed a notification somehow. He opened the message thread.
Read.
He imagined that decision not to answer, to plug the phone in to charge – face down, so the screen doesn’t light up the whole room all night. Imagined him rolling over to sleep as he folded his anger into his body in a tight ball.
Another sign came into view, a warning this time, the last truckstop for however many miles. Ilya followed the reflective arrows and pulled into the parking lot. It was mostly empty, just a few stationary trucks tucked into one corner.
He sat there with his engine still running, almost begging himself to be sensible. Telling himself to go inside, get a coffee, and go home. Talk to him tomorrow. Accept his fate. Apologise to the team and pretend none of this ever happened. The thought of that, though, felt impossible. Walking out under the incandescent orange lights like some sort of exhibit, leaving the momentum he had finally been able to generate abandoned in the driver's seat.
He rested his forehead against the steering wheel.
“Tormoz,” he grumbled, rolling his eyes at himself.
The decision was rash and stupid and irresponsible. It was any combination of disapproving adjectives Shane would throw his way.
But knowing that didn’t mean Ilya could suddenly bring himself to breathe, could suddenly bring himself to be rational. So he did what he always does, because he’s fucking weak and fucking stupid, and he gave in to the urge instead.
He pulled back onto the highway before he could reconsider any further. The engine rumbled as he gathered speed again, tyres crunching into the asphalt as he merged back onto the interstate. He continued north, still not quite admitting to himself that he had made the decision at all.
—————
As the hours dragged on the exit signs slipped past sporadically, their distances ticking down in neat intervals, suggesting that he was making progress towards something. He didn’t want to think about what, exactly. Ilya started to calculate in his head anyway, sluggish and clumsy, subtracting the miles and adding the hours and minutes. He had been driving longer than he had meant to.
He could have turned back. But it was already almost five in the morning, and that would mean another four-ish hours heading south on the same road. Doing it all again, but in reverse. He imagined pulling back into his driveway, opening the door to his apartment and seeing his coat and game-day bag still dumped in the hallway. The shame sat heavily in his chest. He couldn’t face it. He stretched his neck, from right to left and back to centre, and readjusted his grip on the steering wheel. He kept driving.
He saw the warning, almost pretentious, screaming at him, begging him to pay attention.
Last exit before the border.
It was swallowed by the trees before he could even entertain the thought to turn off. The road opened up ahead of him, suddenly a vast expanse of concrete and painted arrows pointing to the inevitability of the situation, taunting him. The floodlights washed everything bright white, sterile and artificial, burning Ilya’s eyes after so many miles lit by just his headlights. A row of glass booths stood in front of him, most of them indicated as empty by red crosses hovering above. Trucks had peeled off into their own channel, and there was just one car waiting ahead of him at the booth. He felt as though he was in a staring contest with their brake lights, too self conscious to look at the uniformed man leaning towards the driver’s window ahead of him.
For the first time in miles, he wasn’t moving. He grabbed for his phone again, just to confirm that the silence had followed him to the border.
Shane (23:15) What the fuck happened?
Shane (23:15) That looked bad.
Shane (23:17) Are you ok?
Shane (23:50) Ilya I know you’re reading these.
Shane (00:05) Answer me, please.
Ilya (00:08) speak tomorrow
He re-read the messages a few times. The tight, childish disappointment in his chest made him feel worse. Shane had respected his boundaries in a way he usually felt grateful for. Guilt settled in his throat, knowing he’d made Shane worry and had refused to ease it. It bubbled out as a thin, pitiful laugh at himself. At least tomorrow was now, he supposed.
The car ahead of him had been waved off. Ilya took a shaky breath, and moved forward.
“Morning,” the officer greeted him once Ilya had rolled down the window. The air was acrid with gasoline fumes. “Passport, please.”
He slid it across to him, fingers unnecessarily trying to conceal the nationality.
“Where are you from?”
“Russia,” Ilya responded, gesturing minutely to the passport in the officer’s hands, “but I live in Boston.”
The officer glanced at the documentation in his hands, then back up. “Where’re you headed?”
“Montreal.”
“What’s the purpose of your trip?”
Oh I don’t know, officer. Just going to embarrass myself, officer.
“Business meeting,” Ilya let the lie tumble out, and scanned the officer’s eyes for any signs of doubt. To stave off further curiosity, he added, “Meeting with some sponsors.”
This was Canada. It was safe to presume he probably knew who was.
The officer nodded, looking satisfied.
“Length of stay?”
Ilya hadn’t even thought of that himself. ‘As long as he will have me’ didn’t seem like an appropriate response.
“Just overnight.”
“Where will you be staying?”
He racked his memory and settled on a hotel downtown that the team had stayed in before, hoping it still existed.
The officer eyeballed his passport once more.
“Anything to declare? Alcohol, tobacco, firearms?”
“No.”
A pause.
“Have a good stay.”
The passport came back through the window, and the gate ahead of him lifted. Ilya offered the officer a tight smile and nodded slightly as he eased his foot off the brake. The car rolled forwards into the first glow of early morning sunlight beginning to peer through the clouds. Ilya felt his grip loosen on the wheel, a strange clarity spreading through his limbs. He was still acutely aware of the dropping feeling in his stomach, but it had shifted slightly away from dread and closer to anticipation.
Less than an hour to go.
⊰══════════⊱
Sleep must have found Shane at some point. His body had been wrecked from the game, his brain exhausted from thinking, and suddenly he was easing his eyes open to the filtered light of dawn. He had drifted towards Ilya's side of the bed, and it felt wrong having his arms wrapped around a pillow that didn't even smell like him. He flicked on the lamp and rolled onto his back, eyes settling onto the ceiling.
It was odd, waking before his alarm. He had carefully constructed every day during the season to follow the same rhythm, and he rarely felt out of sync with it. He felt lost lying there, his brain whirring into action ahead of schedule. He could go for his run. He could get out there earlier, run for longer, trick his brain into channeling everything into the simple biological function of breathing. But that would throw his day off even more.
A fleeting thought hit him: it was tomorrow now. He could call Ilya. Try to get answers. But he didn't wake up before eight-thirty on a good day. Even if he was awake, he probably wouldn't want to speak to Shane. It would be a disaster.
But maybe they needed a disaster. Maybe he needed Ilya to blow up at him, to put him out of his misery and announce the inevitable.
That wouldn't happen today, though. They had a rule: if it was serious, they had to speak about it in person. So Shane kept staring at the ceiling until his vision clouded and he was forced to blink, repeating the cycle again and again to pass the time until his alarm would shatter the silence of his bedroom.
⊰══════════⊱
Ilya was paralysed. His hands were still planted on the steering wheel, feet still firmly on the pedals. He'd been stopped outside Shane's house for anywhere between five and fifty minutes. He wasn't sure. It didn't matter. He couldn't bring himself to leave the car; to knock on the door and confess to this stupid drive.
As soon as Shane let him in, he’d feel responsible for making him better. His heart sank at the thought of burdening Shane – perfect, gentle Shane – with his horrible thoughts and his selfish impulses.
He could still drive away. The bedroom light was on, and Shane would be leaving for his morning run soon. There was still a window of opportunity for Ilya to leave, dignity and relationship intact.
Ilya didn’t want to drive anymore, though. He was lazy, after all.
He pulled his phone out, fingers shaking, and sent a text.
Ilya (06:13) awake?
The call came immediately, and Ilya's stomach clenched as he forced himself to move, to finally fumble with the car door and swing his legs out as he answered.
“Ilya, fuck, why are you awake right now? Are you okay? You're not in the hospital, are you?”
“Shane.”
“No, they would have called Dad. You put him as your emergency contact, right? Or Svetlana? It doesn't matter. Fuck. What's going on?”
Shane sounded frantic, barely breathing between the words, let alone the sentences.
“Shane.”
“Sorry, Ilya, sorry. But talk to me, please. What’s going on?”
“Open the door.”
There was a silence followed by shuffling on the other end of the line.
“What do you mean?”
“Just open the front door, Shane. Please.”
It took a few moments, scrambling and shuffling carried through the phone speaker, but then Shane appeared at the door. His Shane, right there, doing just as he asked. Ilya felt himself reboot, his heart beating and lungs filling, his brain repeating a mantra of Shane, Shane, Shane.
⊰══════════⊱
Shane probably looked ridiculous. He stood at the threshold in his boxers, hair limp and flat against his forehead. His mouth was slack – he knew he was gawking, but what was he expected to do? Ilya was here. In Montreal. On his doorstep.
And fuck, he looked awful. His cheekbone was an angry mix of red and blue, dried blood in his eyebrow, a gash on his lower lip. But it was his eyes that made Shane feel like he had been punched in the stomach. They were bloodshot like he had been crying, the blue of his irises washed out and closer to grey.
Shane took the phone away from his ear, and opened his arms wordlessly. Ilya’s face crumpled and he closed the space between them, collapsing into his chest.
“I'm sorry, Shane. I'm so sorry.”
Shane ignored the bile rising in his throat, swallowing the urge to ask what the fuck he was sorry for. Instead he stepped back, tilting Ilya's chin up to look at him. There wasn't a trace of guilt, nothing hidden. If anything, it was the most transparent Ilya had ever looked. He looked scared and small and vulnerable, and something inside Shane snapped at the sight of it.
He ushered Ilya through the door and walked them awkwardly towards the couch, Ilya's weight propped heavily against him until they collapsed down onto the seat.
Shane was a fixer. He liked solutions. He always thought of both the questions and the answers, and hurried to explain all the options with their pros and cons. Sitting there in his living room, bathed only in the glow of the sunrise filtering through the windows, Shane had never wanted to be able to fix anything more.
But he knew by the way that Ilya was burrowing into him that it wasn't the time for questions or answers. That could wait until later.
⊰══════════⊱
Time didn't feel real anymore to Ilya. He was stuck in a vortex of seconds that felt like hours, and hours felt like minutes, and nothing made sense. Even the thud of his heart slamming against his ribs felt impossible to track. Too fast, too slow.
Shane’s arm was still around his waist, his hand squeezing at the exposed flesh from where his hoodie had ridden up, nails digging in. He hoped they left little crescent moons, indents that he could trace with his fingertips to remind him that this had happened. That Shane was here, and he was real, and he hadn't told him to fuck off yet.
Ilya couldn't stop babbling to begin with, couldn’t stop saying how sorry he was. For what, he wasn't entirely sure. But it kept on tumbling out of his mouth, and he hoped that his brain was at least spewing out words in English, because he could barely think, let alone hear himself.
The way that Shane’s face flickered with panic at every unexplained apology, fear and unspoken questions muddying his eyes, Ilya thought he must be. But he couldn't explain himself, and it made his head pound with guilt every time Shane's breathing hitched, so eventually he stopped. He pressed his nose into Shane's cheek, breathing slowly, willing himself to calm down.
But he didn't know how long they had been sitting like that before Shane carefully jostled him to one side, hand cupping his cheek like his head might fall off. He was looking at him with a ferocious intensity, like he could force telepathy if he just tried hard enough. It made Ilya feel fragile, and he chose to stare at the back of his eyelids instead, head drooped.
“What’s going on, Ilya?” Shane's voice sounded raw, like he had swallowed razorblades. He'd never sounded like this before, and Ilya hated it, hated that he had reduced Shane to this. “You haven't done something bad, have you? You haven't, like, slept with someone else, or—”
“No.” The volume of his own voice startled him, his eyes shooting open. “Shane, no. I wouldn't– I'd never– no.”
The words were all jumbled with desperation to put Shane at ease. He'd probably be annoyed about the accusation when the dust settled, but he couldn't think of that when relief flooded over Shane’s face, jaw relaxing and eyes widening.
“Ilya,” Shane hesitated, eyes scanning the shuttered face staring back at him. “You need to tell me what's going on, baby. I’m worried about you.”
Ilya didn't know why, he barely even registered that it was happening, but big, hot tears began to track down his cheeks. He tried to avert his eyes, to look away from the panic flickering across Shane’s face, but Shane’s hand was still there cupping his cheek and directing him back. It made it worse somehow, and the tears fell faster.
“I am too,” he whispered finally.
“Okay,” Shane breathed the word out, almost inaudible. Something like resolve found its way into his eyes, even though Ilya wasn't sure that Shane really understood. “Okay. That's okay, Ilya.”
Shane pulled Ilya towards him again, letting him hide his face into his neck. The sobs wracked through his body, heavy guttural noises that he would never have recognised as himself before now. It sounded like the hurt and the pain that had been stuck inside of him for years, always trapped and jabbing between his ribs, was finally being set free. Now that it had bubbled out of him, now that he had been weak enough to let it explode outside of himself, he wondered if he would ever be able to stop.
⊰══════════⊱
It's a terrifying thought, to realise that your heart doesn't just beat for yourself. It's even more terrifying to realise that someone else's heart beats for you too, to realise that someone else's existence – the flesh and bones underneath your hands – is the thing that keeps you alive.
Shane was consumed with it, the overwhelming and pervading knowledge that Ilya’s pain was his now too, and that Shane’s strength was going to have to be Ilya's to borrow, somehow.
Their bodies had moved closer instinctively, meshed and melded together, Ilya now pulled onto his lap. His back was rounded like he had tried to curl in on himself, but had instead gotten stuck on Shane’s body, contact at every point. Ilya's sobs wracked through Shane's chest like they were his own, and his eyes were burning, so maybe some of them were.
He'd spent his whole life trying to be prepared. He wanted to know variables, possibilities, potential outcomes. In all the scenarios he had dreamed up – not just in the last few weeks, but the years leading them here – he had never entertained the idea that Ilya was anything other than charismatic and confident, gentle and generous. And he still was all those things, but he was also sad. So deeply, frighteningly sad. He had had a glimpse of it in Tampa, but it was nothing like this. Or maybe it was and he had missed it, too focused on himself and his wants to notice it. He had never felt more ill-prepared for anything in his life, and he didn’t think he would ever forgive himself if he got this wrong.
—————
The sun had fully risen and settled into the sky when Shane realised that Ilya had stopped crying. The sobs had given way to wet gasps, which petered out into sniffs, and eventually nothing. His face was still buried into Shane's shoulder, now damp with tears, his breath coming in small warm puffs against his skin.
He thought that Ilya had fallen asleep, had worn himself out, until he whispered quietly, “I am like my mother, I think.”
He pressed into Shane so close that his lips dragged against his collarbone with every syllable, right above the tiny hairline scar at the site of his earlier break. Shane wanted to look at him, scan his face for something – anything – to assure himself that everything was going to be okay. But Ilya’s nose was rubbing against his skin like he was trying to bury himself, and the words were spoken so quietly and muffled into skin, like the admission couldn't be let loose into the room.
“What? Funny and beautiful? We knew that already.” Shane dipped his head down, burying his nose into Ilya's messy mop of blonde curls to hide the grin that broke out as he felt Ilya's lips curl upwards into a soft smile.
“Yes, obviously.” He pressed his lips down, more a simple touch of skin on skin than a kiss, but it softened the following words nonetheless. “I am sad like her too.”
Shane’s blood ran cold. He felt juvenile for worrying that Ilya had cheated, the fear he had been feeling about that suddenly seemed miniscule. Because Ilya’s mother had been so sad that she had swallowed a whole bottle of pills, and now she wasn’t here. Is that what he meant when he said he was sad like her?
“Are you gonna– I mean, shit, do you want to–”
“God, Hollander. No, I am not about to kill myself on your couch.”
Shane winced. “I didn't mean that.”
“Yes, you did.” His voice had the faintest hint of teasing to it, and Shane tugged on his curls a little to admonish him.
“Fine, maybe a little bit.”
“It’s not like that. But… it could be one day, maybe,” Ilya admitted quietly.
Shane couldn't stand it any longer. “Hey, look at me.”
Ilya exhaled slowly, like he was summoning up courage before twisting in Shane's lap to meet his eyes.
“I need you to promise me you'll talk to me. You can just text me, you know. Or call me. Just tell me what you need from me.”
“Ah, but driving is more romantic, yes?” He rubbed his knuckles against the bridge of his nose, unable to hide the grimace quickly enough from Shane as he flexed his knuckles.
“It would have been more romantic if you hadn't started a brawl to get here. Or at least washed the blood off yourself.”
“Hm, yes. Sorry.” Ilya gestured towards Shane’s shoulder, thinly coated with drying tears and snot. “Sorry for that, as well.”
It would have been a lie to say that he didn't feel gross, that he didn't want to peel his skin off. But he knew better than to admit it while Ilya looked so sheepish. It was strange seeing Ilya like that, like he was wearing an ill-fitting costume.
So Shane just rolled his eyes, hooked his thumb under Ilya's chin, and tilted his mouth up towards his. He kissed him, gentle and soft, careful of the split on his lip.
“Let's go shower,” he said, stomach doing somersaults as Ilya puffed a laugh against his lips.
⊰══════════⊱
He should feel alarmed, maybe, with how relaxed he was. It was uncharacteristic to relinquish control, to drop the mask, to feel like he was floating. But it happened so easily with Shane's arms wrapped around him, guiding him into the bathroom. There was no need to act now, after he had laid himself so bare.
He’d built his life around two distinct lies. The first was public: he didn't care about anything, or anyone, or what people thought of him. The second was more private. It was the lie that he had told himself every day for fifteen years: he could never end up like Mama.
He still didn't want to. He still had some fight in him, he knew that. He knew that Shane was his lighthouse, guiding him to safety, steering him away from the rocks no matter how strong the current or rough the waves. But he knew, if ever that light went out, he would be done for.
When Shane had asked what he needed, he couldn't just say you. He couldn't admit that. He couldn't say that all he wanted was to spend every moment with him, that he needed to share air with him to feel able to breathe.
This year was going to be difficult, but it would be better once he was in Ottawa.
He let Shane peel off his clothes, let him press gentle kisses into each and every bruise, the pads of his fingers grazing his skin. He let himself be corralled into the shower. The water was burning hot, steam clouding the room and fogging the mirrors. It was the way Ilya liked it, setting his skin ablaze as his muscles went lax under the stream.
He stood there and let the water hammer down on his shoulders, eyes closed, willing himself to come back to his body.
“This might sting,” Shane warned, voice quiet and fingers steady against his left cheek.
Ilya watched as Shane moved closer towards him, eyebrows wrinkled in concentration. He lifted a washcloth up to his right eyebrow and swiped, applying pressure against his browbone. Ilya sucked in a breath between his teeth.
“Sorry, sorry,” Shane muttered as he leaned in, kissing his temple. “Your cheek looks pretty bruised. Did you ice it?”
Ilya shook his head and chuckled as Shane sighed and called him stupid. “Will be fine, solnyshko.”
“You have blood in your hair.” Shane leaned across to reach into the caddy, bottles rattling against one another.
“Use—”
“The black one first, then the purple one. I know. Diva.”
Before Ilya could protest, Shane's fingers were combing through his hair, lathering the shampoo into his curls. He pressed his fingers into his scalp, massaging with gentle pressure as his thumb teased along the hairline above his ear. Ilya shuddered into the touch, sighing happily as his eyes slipped shut. Shane pushed the water through his hair to rinse out the suds and let his fingernails scrape gently at the nape of Ilya’s neck. He groaned, the sound getting stuck in his throat.
Ilya blinked his eyes open again and let them settle on Shane’s face. He was flushed in a way that couldn't be attributed to the heat of the shower, his lower lip pulled into his mouth between his teeth. Ilya's gaze drifted lower: past his chest, past his abs. They settled on Shane’s cock, now half-hard and twitching under his attention. He lifted his eyes, raising his eyebrows.
“We need to stop meeting like this, hm? People will talk, Hollander.” Shane shook his head, avoiding Ilya's smug smile. “You're like one of those dogs. Cannot stand in shower with me without getting hard.”
“Fuck off, you're hard too.”
Ilya hummed, trailing his hand down his stomach. “Maybe my brain is not so scrambled if my dick is still working.”
Shane swatted Ilya's hand. “Ilya, we don't have to—”
Ilya stuck his tongue out, blowing a raspberry at him. “Don't need to be all sensitive with me, Hollander.” He stepped into Shane's space, hand gripping his waist tightly. “I'm not broken, okay?”
Shane nodded, eyelids heavy and breath catching as Ilya's hands trailed across his skin. His hand found the base of Shane’s cock, and he squeezed roughly.
“This is still mine. And this—” He grabbed Shane’s wrist, pulling his hand down to his own cock. He sighed as Shane’s fingers wrapped around him, gripping him. “This is still yours, yes?”
Shane dropped his forehead against Ilya's shoulder, nodding against his skin. Ilya began to run his fingers along the underside of Shane’s cock, featherlight and teasing in that way that always made him desperate. He was instantly rewarded with Shane nipping at his skin, tugging it between his teeth to silence a whine, his hand around Ilya's dick tightening.
Ilya's free hand trailed along Shane’s lower back, palm resting on the curve of his ass as his fingers pressed into the flesh, pulling his cheeks apart.
“I haven't…” Shane trailed off with a gasp as Ilya's thumb swiped over the head of his cock.
“Is okay. We have time later. Probably good to give me something to look forward to, hm?”
“Fuck, don't weaponise it, you asshole.”
He laughed at Shane and continued to grip his fingers into the muscle, feeling him fight between pushing his ass back into it or thrusting his hips forward to get Ilya to jerk him off properly. Ilya brought his mouth close to Shane’s ear.
“Later I will punish you properly for ever doubting this dick was yours, yes? Fuck you so hard you'll never forget again, hm?”
Shane moaned in earnest, the sound echoing off the bathroom walls. He began to pump Ilya's cock in his hand, the strokes still slower and more cautious than usual. Ilya let out a soft mmm at the movement, lips still pressed to the shell of Shane’s ear. Shane’s whole body twitched against him.
“What will I have to do to remind you, sweetheart?”
“Nothing, Ilya – fuck – I know it's mine.”
Ilya laughed under his breath, pressing a kiss to Shane’s cheek. He dropped the hand from Shane’s ass and brought it around to his balls, pinching the thin skin between his fingers. It wasn't particularly rough, but it made Shane hiss all the same.
“Boring answer, Shane. Try again. Tell me.”
His hand was still moving slowly, but he tightened his grip around Shane's cock a little, tracing the ridge of the vein under his thumb, brushing his balls with the back of his fingers.
Shane finally began to stroke Ilya faster, fingers wrapped around him more firmly, and Ilya struggled to keep his breathing in check, trying to hold on to his composure for as long as he could.
“Need you to watch me.” Shane gasped out eventually as Ilya rewarded him with a proper stroke, hand jerking roughly along his length. “Hold me down, so I can't go anywhere.”
Ilya bit down on his lower lip, breath catching as his teeth scraped along the cut skin. “Would you try to go anywhere?”
Shane shook his head, droplets of water from his hair falling onto Ilya’s skin as he twisted his wrist.
“That's good, malysh, fuck.” Ilya’s hips rutted forward into Shane's hand. “Wouldn't let you. I thought I would hook your legs over my shoulders too. Could fuck you so deep like that, just how you like.”
He imagined it, Shane spread out underneath him, wrists trapped beneath his palms. He groaned at the thought, anticipation flooding his veins at knowing he could have it. His right hand sped up on Shane's cock, the left slipping behind his balls and pressing against his taint. Shane gasped against him, matching Ilya’s pace and rolling his balls in his palm. Ilya swallowed thickly, letting himself revel in the pleasure of Shane’s hands, shockwaves shooting through his body.
“I would start slow, I think. Want to tease you.” Ilya's voice was strained, swallowing moans to stay in control, tracing his thumb around the head of Shane’s cock on the upstroke. “But I don't think it would stay like that for long. Going to want to fuck you so fast and hard, probably. Make me fucking crazy, Shane.”
“Make me crazy too,” Shane slurred. “Gonna need to hear you. Need to hear how fucking gone I make you.”
Ilya growled, a low rumbling sound in his throat, as he mouthed along the line of Shane's neck. Shane always liked that, always liked hearing Ilya’s orgasm build. He pushed his hips forward, rolling them into Shane's palm like he was trying to fuck it. He felt high on the scent of Shane, the weight of his cock in his palm, the grip around his own. It was too much and not enough, words suddenly impossible.
He nosed against Shane's ear, silently urging him to lift his head. And Shane, perfect Shane who always knows what he needs to do, peeled himself up from against Ilya’s chest. Ilya moaned at the sight of him, his swollen lips and flushed cheeks, his heavy lidded eyes glistening with unshed tears as he rutted into his hand desperately.
Shane’s fingers flexed around Ilya’s cock, switching between rough tugs down and light strokes up. Ilya stroked his fingers against the skin behind Shane’s balls, pressing upwards in time with his palm stroking along his cock. It made Shane move against him more fervently, rocking into him. He looked lost in it, pupils blown and trained on Ilya’s face.
“Moy krasivyy malchik,” Ilya whispered. “Takoy ideal’nyy.”
Shane whined, jerking his wrist quickly. One hand fell to the flesh of Ilya’s thigh, nails scraping into his skin. It was like Shane was trying to mark him, and Ilya gasped with every drag against his skin, thinking about how it would look in the mirror, what people would think if they saw it.
Shane was leaking into Ilya's hand, the twitch of his hips and stuttered breathing signalling how close he was. Ilya wasn't faring much better, the warmth pooling in his abdomen letting him know he wouldn't be able to hold out for much longer.
He pressed their foreheads together, mouth open and panting directly into Shane's. It tasted like desperation, the sweat on his lip mixing with the spray of the shower. He rubbed their mouths together, more to get his attention than a kiss.
“Come for me, Hollander.”
Ilya’s voice was low and commanding. It was immediate, the way Shane’s jaw went slack and his eyes screwing shut, warm spurts hitting Ilya's stomach and trickling down his knuckles. Shane was still stroking him, but it was erratic now, grip tightening with every wave of his orgasm. It was beautiful and Ilya never wanted it to end, wanted to have the image seared onto his eyelids for the rest of his life. Ilya's orgasm ripped through him with little warning, and there was nothing but white noise and the sound of Shane’s name spilling from his lips.
“We were meant to be getting clean.” Shane said after a few moments, still breathless.
Ilya didn't realise his eyes had slipped shut again, but he could hear the soft smile in Shane’s voice and he wanted to see it. He rubbed their noses together and blinked his eyes open, chest heaving as he wound his arms around Shane’s waist to keep him in front of him.
“When are you just going to accept that you're dirty, Hollander?”
“Ha ha.” Shane nudged him with his knee. “Come on, wash off. Wanna go lie down for a bit.”
Ilya kissed his cheek, and stepped back into the stream fully, scrubbing at his skin with a lazy smile. It was pathetic maybe, feeling fuck-drunk from a handjob, but it took over his whole body. The adrenaline crash from the last twenty-four hours and the exhaustion from running only on his pre-game nap made his movements slow, so he let Shane take over again: rinsing, shutting off the shower, wrapping him up in a towel.
⊰══════════⊱
Shane never thought he would hold reverence for the simple biological function of breathing. Ilya had fallen asleep as soon as his head hit the pillow, and Shane had tried to follow suit but he found it impossible. He was transfixed on the rise and fall of his boyfriend's chest, the mechanical signs of life: in for two, out for two.
He watched him with a fascination that he hadn't been afforded since the cottage, and he wanted to remember the exact shape of him while he looked so peaceful. Left side planted to the mattress, right leg bent at a 90-degree angle, the back of his left hand under his cheek as the right one reached out, fingers still intertwined with Shane's in the small space between them. His lips were parted but the puffs of air came through his nose, rhythmic and snuffling.
It should be enough, but it wasn't. Shane took his other hand and pressed his palm flat against Ilya’s chest, between his pecs. He needed to feel the thud of his heart. He felt dramatic – had never been so glad that Ilya was a deep sleeper – but he needed to make sure he was really still there.
Shane's eyes fell to the crucifix around Ilya’s neck. The chain was twisted and it lay off centre, the way it only ever did when Ilya was sleeping; he had the habit of fiddling with it every few seconds, making sure it sat perfectly. He would never admit it, but Shane felt anger flare up in his stomach when he looked at it. At the burden that had fallen to Ilya. And maybe a little at Irina, if he was honest with himself. For not fighting hard enough, for not making Ilya feel like he was enough to stay for. Irina had only suffered with Grigori, Ilya spoke about that often, but Shane always found himself biting back but what about you?
It would be different for Ilya. He had Shane, and he was strong, and he knew the pain of being the one left behind.
It was going to be different. It had to be.
—————
Shane left it as long as he could before moving. He brushed the back of his hand against Ilya’s cheek, watching as his nose wrinkled at the sensation. He tried to release his other hand from Ilya's but he held on tighter and whined.
“Pochemu ty ukhodish?” he mumbled, squinting one eye open. Shane must have looked confused, because Ilya quickly self-corrected into English. “Sorry. Where are you going?”
Shane lifted their joined hands and kissed along Ilya’s knuckles, soft and tender where they were still swollen and angry.
“I have to go to training,” he whispered. “Played like dogshit yesterday. Can't really skip it.”
Ilya hummed, something Shane couldn't place flashing in his eyes. “Is okay, solnyshko, I'm probably banned for a while. Will be able to catch up to me.”
“Have you spoken to your coach?” Ilya shook his head, tight-lipped. “Okay. You should do that. And text Marleau.”
“Marly? Why the fuck should I text him?”
Shane didn't know, really. But after three weeks of stalking his social media he had grown fond of him, even if he was always dancing on tables and posting topless selfies in bed.
“You haven't been going out, then you punched the shit out of someone and disappeared. He's your friend, Ilya, he's probably worried. Svetlana too.”
Ilya's face went blank, but he nodded and let go of Shane’s hand with a final squeeze. He couldn't help but feel like he had said something wrong, and he wanted nothing more than to crawl closer and stay in bed with Ilya all day. But he couldn't, so he went through the motions of getting ready to leave instead.
“I won't be too long.” Shane sat on the edge of the bed, now fully clothed. “You'll be here when I get back?”
He didn't like the way it sounded, unsure and alien in his mouth. He didn't want to doubt it, didn't want to be nervous about coming back to an empty bed and an empty pit in his stomach. But Ilya didn't tease him, for once. He just nodded.
“I'll be here when you get back, Shane.”
Shane nodded too, feeling like his body was being ripped in two. He wouldn't cry. He couldn't let Ilya know how scared he really was. He leaned in and kissed Ilya's forehead.
“I love you.”
Ilya squeezed the back of his neck. “I love you too.”
⊰══════════⊱
To be loved is to be seen. But being seen makes you vulnerable. And vulnerability is exposing, and humiliating.
Ilya hated the push and pull of it: of needing Shane to understand every inch of him, but wanting to conceal everything that made him ugly.
He had been a coward his whole life, and it was a hard habit to shake.
As soon as the door clicked shut behind Shane, as soon as he heard the rumble of the engine and the tires against the road fade into nothing, he thought about leaving. Of course he did. He ran from Russia to America, he ran from his father and his brother, and he ran from himself.
But then he thought about Shane, and the doubt in his eyes when Ilya said he would be here when he got home. He couldn't do it. He couldn't run. He couldn't disappoint him.
For the first time in a long time, Ilya had a reason to stay. He was going to grab it with both hands, sink his teeth into it, and never let it go.