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The snow had already started falling when Scott found the building. It was quieter than he’d expected not the kind of place you’d picture for someone who once owned every room he walked into. The doorman had recognized the name instantly, but his hesitation before giving Scott the floor number said enough.
When Ilya finally opened the door, Scott almost didn’t recognize him.
He was thinner, pale, a faint stubble shadowing his jaw. There was a cane leaning against the wall, and his right leg was braced beneath loose sweats.
“Hunter?” Ilya said, voice rough like he hadn’t used it much lately. “What the hell are you doing here?”
Scott didn’t answer at first. He just stared at the dim light, the unopened mail on the table, the half-eaten takeout on the counter. The empty apartment.
Then it hit him.
“You’re alone.”
Ilya’s brow furrowed. “Da. Why wouldn’t I be?”
Scott’s jaw clenched. Because you shouldn’t be.
“Where’s Shane?” he demanded, voice low but tight with anger. “Where the hell is he?”
Ilya’s smirk was automatic, defensive. “Gone. Has his own life. I told him to go.”
Scott felt the heat rise under his skin that old, burning frustration that had nothing to do with rivalry anymore. “You told him to go?” He took a step closer. “You can barely stand, Rozanov. You” He broke off, shaking his head, running a hand through his hair. “God, I swear, the next time I see Shane, I’m going to”
“Punch him?” Ilya’s smile didn’t reach his eyes. “You always did like playing the hero.”
“Don’t,” Scott snapped. “Don’t turn this into a joke. You deserve better than this, Ilya.”
That made Ilya look away, his mouth tightening, the humor gone. For a moment, silence stretched the kind that felt heavier than words. The sound of the wind against the windows filled the gap.
Scott’s voice dropped. “You gave everything to the game. To him. And now you’re sitting here like none of it mattered.”
Something flickered in Ilya’s expression anger, shame, pain, maybe all three. “You don’t know what you’re talking about.”
“Don’t I?” Scott stepped closer, and for a moment they were face-to-face, the air between them charged and bitter. “I watched you destroy yourself to prove something to everyone to him. And he’s not even here.”
Ilya swallowed, his throat working visibly. “You shouldn’t have come.”
“Yeah,” Scott said, his voice rough. “Maybe not. But I couldn’t stop thinking about you. About how no one else seems to give a damn.”
And that was the moment the flicker of something breaking behind Ilya’s eyes, that tiny tremor in his breath. Scott didn’t reach out, not yet, but every muscle in his body screamed to.
Scott didn’t leave that night.
He told himself it was just to make sure Ilya ate something decent, that he wouldn’t trip over the damn cane again. But when morning came, he was still there brewing coffee in the half-lit kitchen, pretending it was temporary.
Days stretched into weeks. Scott ran errands, drove Ilya to physio, filled the silences with easy conversation that grew softer, more personal.
Sometimes, Ilya would look at him with that sharp, knowing gaze that used to drive him crazy on the ice except now, it made Scott’s chest ache.
One evening, Ilya had fallen asleep on the couch, his head tilted toward the window where the city lights flickered like distant fireflies. Scott watched him for too long watched the slow rise and fall of his chest, the fragile peace on his face.
That was when he knew.
Whatever this was friendship, care, something deeper it had its hooks in him.
—
The next night, Scott went out to pick up dinner. When he came back, there was someone standing by the door.
Tall. Blond. Familiar.
Shane.
Scott froze, the takeout bags crumpling slightly in his grip.
Shane looked at him with that cool, unbothered smile. “Didn’t expect to see you here, Hunter. Checking on the wounded?”
The casual tone hit like a slap.
“You mean your wounded,” Scott said flatly. “Or did you forget about him once the cameras stopped watching?”
Shane’s smile faltered. “Ilya told me he didn’t want company.”
Scott laughed bitterly. “Yeah, that’s what he says. You think he’d ever ask for help? You think he can?”
“Don’t talk like you know him better than I do,” Shane snapped. “You weren’t there for the worst of it.”
Scott took a step closer, voice rising. “And where the hell were you these past months, huh? Because I was there, Shane. I saw what you left behind a man who can’t even climb his own stairs without wincing.”
Shane’s eyes flashed. “You think you’re some savior, Hunter? You think he wants you here, pitying him?”
“This isn’t pity,” Scott hissed. “It’s called giving a damn. Something you clearly stopped doing.”
The words hung between them, heavy and poisonous.
Then Scott’s voice cracked, softer but no less furious. “He deserved better. From you. From everyone. And you left him alone when he needed someone the most.”
Shane looked like he wanted to argue, but the fight drained out of him. He ran a hand over his face, muttering, “You don’t understand us.”
“Maybe not,” Scott said, his jaw tight. “But I understand him. And I’m not leaving him alone again.”
When Scott turned and went back inside, his pulse was hammering. Ilya was awake, watching him from the couch, eyes shadowed with something unreadable.
“You heard?” Scott asked quietly.
Ilya nodded. “You should not have done that.”
Scott’s throat tightened. “Yeah, maybe. But someone had to.”
For a long moment, they just stared at each other the air thick with anger, regret, and something deeper neither dared to name.
—
The apartment felt different after that night.
Maybe it was because Scott hadn’t left again or maybe because Ilya couldn’t stop replaying what he’d heard outside, the sound of Scott’s voice rising in defense of him, raw and furious. No one had ever fought for him like that. Not even Shane.
Scott didn’t bring it up. He never did.
Instead, he just… stayed.
He helped Ilya into his coat before physio, always careful, his hand at the small of Ilya’s back, steady and patient. He brewed tea when Ilya couldn’t sleep, left notes on the fridge, cooked soup that was somehow too salty and still perfect.
And when Ilya got frustrated when the pain flared and the cane slipped and he cursed in Russian until his throat hurt Scott didn’t tell him to stop. He just caught his elbow, murmured, “Easy, you’re okay,” his voice low and sure.
One night, Ilya sat on the couch after physio, muscles trembling. The snow outside turned the city quiet, and Scott moved around the apartment barefoot, bringing a blanket, dimming the lights.
“You don’t have to do this,” Ilya muttered.
Scott just smiled, sitting beside him. “You’d do the same for me.”
“I would tell you to stop being idiot and do it yourself.”
“Exactly.” Scott’s grin widened and then softened. He leaned forward, brushed a stray lock of hair from Ilya’s forehead… and pressed a kiss there. Gentle, brief. Almost nothing and yet everything.
Ilya froze.
It wasn’t a joke, or pity. It was care. Simple and warm and steady.
And in that moment, he realized something terrifying: they were no longer just two ex-players sharing space. Somewhere between the silences, they’d become something else.
Later that week, Ilya caught himself watching Scott make coffee, sleeves rolled up, humming off-key. His chest ached not with pain this time, but with something deep and unfamiliar.
Scott looked over, smiled, and reached out to squeeze his shoulder a simple, everyday touch. But it lingered.
Ilya didn’t pull away.
When Scott turned to leave the kitchen, Ilya found himself whispering, almost to himself,
“We are becoming something, da?”
Scott glanced back, his expression soft but unreadable.
“Maybe we already are,” he said.
And for the first time in a long time, Ilya didn’t feel alone.
The first real snowstorm of the season hit a week later. The world outside Ilya’s apartment vanished under white the streets, the cars, even the noise. It was the kind of cold that settled in your bones, but inside, everything was warm.
Scott was making dinner again, humming as usual, while Ilya sat on the couch, his leg stretched out under a blanket. The smell of garlic and butter filled the air.
Domestic. Ordinary.
And somehow, it felt right.
When Scott brought over two bowls, he set one in front of Ilya and sat down beside him. Their knees brushed a small, accidental touch that neither of them moved to break.
“Smells good,” Ilya said.
Scott smiled. “Don’t sound so surprised.”
Ilya huffed a quiet laugh, then looked at him really looked. The way Scott’s hair had silvered a little, the laugh lines that deepened when he smiled. The kind eyes that had seen him at his worst and never looked away.
He didn’t remember deciding to speak the words just slipped out, soft and rough:
“You stayed.”
Scott blinked. “Of course I did.”
“No one stays,” Ilya said, his voice barely above a whisper. “Not when things get hard. Not with me.”
Scott turned toward him fully, his hand finding Ilya’s on the couch. “I’m not no one.”
For a heartbeat, neither moved. The sound of wind against the windows was the only thing between them.
Then Scott leaned in slowly, giving Ilya every chance to pull back.
Ilya didn’t.
The kiss was gentle, a quiet meeting of warmth and breath. It wasn’t the kind of fire Ilya had known before; it was steadier, deeper like coming home after years of noise.
When they finally parted, Ilya rested his forehead against Scott’s. “You should know… I’m not easy.”
Scott smiled, brushing a thumb over his cheek. “Neither am I.”
Ilya chuckled softly, the sound low and real. “Then maybe we deserve each other.”
Scott’s answer was another kiss longer this time, full of promise.