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Chapter Text

Shane can't seem to get comfortable in his cardboard bed in the Olympic Village. The sheets scratch. The pillows are basically worthless. And he knows that all the athletes have to deal with the same conditions, and at least he has his own room, but it's been driving him up the wall for over a week now. Zero guesses as to why he's hit his breaking point today. 

We are not anything here.

He knew Rozanov got all cagey about being in Russia. He knew the risks too - in what world does Shane Hollander not worry about being outed every second of every day? It's just . . . they hadn't texted in months. And then he saw him today at the figure skating event and he thought -

Shane groans and throws an arm over his eyes. He's such an idiot. He has a playoff game tomorrow night at the literal fucking Olympics and he's obsessing over Rozanov. 

He thinks about taking another shower. Sometimes it helps to start over and pretend to go to bed all over again. Sometimes it feels like 90% of Shane's life is tricking his brain into being functional but he's not going to dwell on that right now. Rolling over, he taps his phone. The screen lights up. 1:17 AM. And, almost like he's conjured him, the caller ID buzzes: Lily.

Future Shane can be embarrassed by how quickly he answers the call. 

"Hey, are you okay?" he whispers into the phone. He can't remember the two of them ever calling before. 

"Shane Hollander," says a distinctly female voice. A voice that is not Rozanov. 

His heart leaps into his throat.

"Do not panic and do not hang up," the woman orders. Her accent is softer than Rozanov's but still identifiably Russian. Shane chooses not to psychoanalyze why he's so quick to obey her. "I am Svetlana Vetrova, Ilya's friend. He might have mentioned me."

"Uhh." Shane obviously knows who Vetrov's daughter is - and had burned with jealousy at the casual way Rozanov mentioned knowing her dad. He remembers hearing about nights out at the club with Svetlana. What he doesn't understand is how the hell she knows he's Jane. 

"Listen." Svetlana cuts through his run-amok thoughts. "Ilyusha is hurt. He needs someone to take care of him."

Shane sits bolt upright in the stupid cardboard bed. "Hurt? Hurt how?"

"You cannot repeat this, understand? The same way that I will never tell anyone that Shane Hollander goes by Jane in another man's phone." 

Shane can hear his heartbeat like it's inside of his eardrum. "Yeah, of course." He agrees before he even really processes it.

"Ilya's father is not a kind man. He did not take Russia's loss in the first round lightly. Ilya knew this and avoided seeing him, but there was a State Gala tonight. He could not miss it. His father took the opportunity to teach him a lesson."

"Teach him a - what the fuck?" Shane thinks he should be shouting but instead the words escape in a desperate wheeze. 

"He is hurt. Badly, but he will be fine in the long term. The problem is, I cannot leave the gala for long. It would not look good for my father, and everyone would know I left to help Ilya, which would also bring more anger his way. I need you to come get him."

"I - what?" A slow trickle of terror runs down his spine. Ilya hadn't wanted to risk being seen talking in public. And now Svetlana wants - "What about his coach? Or teammates? The team doctor?"

"You must understand that the social circles of the elites here are very small. Everyone knows everyone. His coach is an old family friend. The doctor gets paid to look the other way. His teammates, if they even cared, wouldn't risk bringing attention to themselves. I called you because you are the only person I trust with him." For the first time, Svetlana's voice wavers.

"Okay," he says, "I'll come. I just need to find a car -"

"There's a car waiting for you at the North entrance to the Athlete's village. I'll text you the license plate, and the address. He will be discreet, I promise."

Shane waits for the ping of her incoming text to stand. 

"Thank you," she says, and hangs up.

He moves as if someone else has seized control of his body. Shane yanks on a pair of sweats, a jacket, and a cap. He haphazardly throws some spare clothes into a duffle, then takes them out again when he notices the huge Olympics logo on the side. He crams a spare shirt and a hoodie into a plastic bag instead, shoves on his shoes, and goes out into the brisk winter night.

*

Svetlana: Driver will bring you to the East side of the house. There's a bathroom on the ground floor.

Jane: This place is enormous. How am I supposed to know where one bathroom is??

Svetlana: Follow the brick path. I'll flash the lights in a minute.

Jane: Okay, I see you.

Jane: You're sure this isn't a prank? Feels like a spy movie.

Svetlana: Welcome to Russia

Svetlana: Now climb through the window

 

*

It's a challenge to clean the blood off Ilyusha and text Hollander at the same time. She's mildly impressed by how quickly he got here. As awkward as he seems in TV interviews, Hollander knows how to buckle down and get a job done. She supposes that should be obvious from his hockey playing. 

A quiet knock sounds at the window. Svetlana rolls her eyes. The window is already propped, only a Canadian would knock before climbing through it. There's the rustle of some plants and a soft grunt before Hollander's shoes land on the tile floor of the truly gaudy, and massive, bathroom. She looks up from where she's leaned over the bathtub, dabbing at the blood on Ilya's forehead. Sees the moment Hollander's gaze lands on Ilya and those panicked eyes harden, just like they do during a face off. The little Canadian is angry.

Good.

"Rozanov." He beelines to Ilya's other side. Hollander's eyes jump from the blood at his temple to the purple on his cheek, to the awkward way Ilya arranged himself in the tub before falling unconscious. Finally, he meets Svetlana's gaze. "What the fuck did he do to him?"

She tries to sound detached. Conditioned to violence and unflappable. "Beat him. Stomped on him, I think. His father and also his brother. I did not see it. I only know what he told me when he called. He was already unconscious by the time I made it to his hiding place." She gestures to the room. Tries not to think of how Ilya made it from the upstairs offices to this ground floor bathroom, alone. Bleeding. She is endlessly grateful that her Ilyusha is so strong. 

"Here," Hollander takes the towel from her, "Let me finish cleaning him up."

"There is no time. You need to take him now."

"Why? What else could they possibly want to do to him?" It's almost a growl. 

"I don't know," she says, frustration leaking into her voice. Not at Hollander, but at life. "His brother is a drunk coke addict who maybe comes back just to tease him? You want to find out?"

"No. I'm not letting anything else happen to him." With that, Hollander climbs fully into the bathtub. He scans for the best angle before crouching and deadlifting Ilya into a bridle carry. Svetlana feels a small vindication watching it. Hollander has very nice hands. 

Then, a pause. A crack in that steely resolve. "Where should I take him?"

Svetlana prepares herself for a fight. "You have your own room at the Village, yes?" She checked, earlier. Before calling. Ilyusha has a hotel not far from the stadiums, now that he's out of the games, but Hollander is stuck in the athlete's village for at least another few days. Five, she would bet. He's going to get that gold medal. Which means that he won't be able to sneak off to Ilya's hotel room multiple times a day to make sure he isn't dying or having a seizure or in one of the black holes he sometimes falls into after "lessons" from his father. Ilya needs someone constant. Someone close.

Hollander looks at her like she's suggested ritualistic murder. "I can't keep him in my room! I can't even sneak myself in and out of the Olympic Village after curfew! It's a miracle I managed it this time without getting caught."

"It wasn't a miracle, it was me." 

"And?"

"And he needs someone to check him every four hours for concussion symptoms. And wrap his ribs, probably." And kiss him better, she almost adds. "You can't dump him in a hotel and leave him there."

The steel is back. "I wasn't going to dump him anywhere." Still, he hesitates. 

Svetlana holds back her response for a long moment. She can see in the way Hollander holds Ilya, gentle but unrelenting, that there is something good and trustworthy there. She doesn't know exactly what they are to each other, but she knows Shane cares about her Ilyusha. She has to hope he can care for her friend better than she could herself. In the minefield that is Russia, she wants to give Ilya a moment of tenderness. Of peace.

"He needs someone to take care of him," Svetlana admits, "Not just physically. He needs someone who cares. And I can't be there without making it worse for both of us."

As if sensing the tension in the air, Ilya stirs. He murmurs incoherently into Hollander's shoulder. Instantly, Hollander pulls Ilya in closer, shushing him. "I've got you, I've got you." He waits for Ilya to settle. Then, to Svetlana, "You'll make sure we can get back into the Village unseen?"

"You have my word."

Hollander adjusts Ilya once more. His lips brush the soft hair at his temple. "Okay. Help me out of the bathtub then."

Chapter Text

Shane has his hand tucked under Ilya's shirt so he can feel his heartbeat. The steady thud of Ilya's pulse is the only thing keeping him from going off the absolute deep end. He's got Ilya in his lap, in the back seat of the car. The dim street lights of Sochi flicker past.

A voice that sounds like Yuna Hollander cautions him to stop and think this through. He's putting entirely too much faith in Svetlana and the car's blacked-out windows. And yet, the risk barely registers. If someone found them out right now, he thinks he wouldn't even be scared. He almost wants it - wants to fight the world to keep Ilya safe.

A low sound of distress escapes Ilya's throat. 

Shane runs his free hand up Ilya's side. "You're okay," he murmurs.

Consciousness turns Rozanov's limbs to jelly. Shane does his best to wrangle him upright. In the darkness of the backseat, he can't make out the extent of the damage or the look in Rozanov's eyes when he flutters them open.

"Hollander?"

Shane keeps a hand on his arm, hoping to ground him. He thinks how scary it would be to fall unconscious in one place and wake up in another. The image of Ilya - strewn in the bathtub like a corpse - crashes into his mind.

"ты настоящий?"

"I don't know what you're saying," Shane says, "But I'm taking you back to my room in the Village. To make sure you're okay."

The lack of response from Rozanov puts Shane on edge. It's important that he knows where he is and that he isn't in any danger. 

"I'm gonna take care of you," Shane says, "You're safe now."

"Shane," Ilya says brokenly, and burrows himself into Shane's chest. The move seems to use up whatever remaining strength he had because the big, tough Russian goes totally limp against him. Shane feels the slight tremor in his muscles, the comedown of adrenaline hitting him, and fights the urge to squeeze Ilya tight.

Ilya called him Shane. 

*

Shane: Where can I take him if his injuries are really bad?

Lily's Friend: You are where you take him.

Shane: I AM NOT A DOCTOR

Shane: His ribs might be broken.

Shane: There could be internal bleeding.

Lily's Friend: He is too dramatic to keep any bleeding internally.

Shane: That's not how bleeding works.

Lily's Friend: And you say you're not a doctor?

Shane: ...

Lily's Friend: the hospitals are not safe, especially not together

Lily's Friend: if it is life or death you call me, not ambulance

Lily's Friend: okay?

Shane: fine

Shane: keep your ringer on

*

The car pulls to a stop. Shane sends one more text to Svetlana alerting her to do, well, whatever she did last time to sneak him out of the Olympic Village. Ilya is deadweight against him as Shane scoots them both towards the door. He extracts himself gently and manages to get out of the car. It's nearly 3am. The stadium lights are on, and the Olympic Rings aglow, but the plaza is deserted. He hefts Ilya out of the car and back into his arms. There are few times when Shane feels proud of his strength. On the ice, it is his speed, his stamina, and his cunning which set him apart. With Rozanov tucked to his chest, Shane feels fucking strong.

The confidence boost fades immediately. He hovers awkwardly with no way to close the car door behind them. Should he try to kick it and risk upending them both? Ask the driver for help? And, shit, is he supposed to thank the anonymous man in the front seat who apparently lives at Svetlana's beck and call? This is so far beyond the realm of social norms that it's a miracle he hasn't spontaneously combusted from the shock. 

Shane decides his one and only mission is to get Ilya safely inside. That frees his legs from their social paralysis and he crosses the plaza in quick strides. His muscles burn by the time he reaches the gate to the athletes-only area. The night guard is nowhere to be found. Shane has to set Ilya partway down to dig out his key card and scan them through. Deep in the maze of dorms, a laugh and the clink of glass chime out. It hits him suddenly how odd this looks - him bridal carrying another full-grown Olympic athlete. 

Shane comes to a decision.

"Rozanov." 

Ilya snaps awake. He fights briefly against Shane's hold before seeming to recognize who he's with. His pupils are blown wide - whether from the concussion, the adrenaline, or something else, Shane doesn't know.

"I need you to walk with me into the dorms, okay?" Shane says. He hates how the words take a long moment to penetrate Ilya's fuzzy gaze. Even when he blinks and nods, Shane has to wonder if he's just working on autopilot.

Still, Ilya cooperates as Shane puts his cap over those blond curls and arranges their limbs to stand together. Shane tightens his grip and pulls Ilya forward. 

A horrible sound of pain punches out of him. 

"Sorry! Sorry," he hisses, trying to readjust so he's grabbing Ilya's hipbone. He keeps up a steady stream of encouragement as they painstakingly navigate to the right building. By the time they're halfway up a flight of stairs, he can hear the thick pant Ilya releases with every grueling step. They reach the first floor and Shane can see his door at the end of the hall. He wants to laugh that they haven't been caught yet and tamps down on the impulse.

"Almost there," he whispers. Then Rozanov's legs give out.

Shane thought he knew every sound that triggered him. There's the obvious ones like chalk squeaking or incessant beeping. The stupid ones, like the computer start-up chime. The weird ones, like chewing specifically rotini pasta. Tonight he discovers a new Worst Sound.

It is the sound of Ilya Rozanov choking on the word please.

Shane trusts his body more than his mind, and it's moments like these which make him grateful for that. He's scooping up Ilya before a single hesitating thought can form. He charges to the end of the hall. Shane gets them through the door without a second of fumbling and kicks it closed behind them. Then he's laying Ilya on the mattress, kneeling beside him when he clings, and whispering, "I've got you, baby," before any self-awareness can creep in to stop him. 

He allows himself five full second to breathe Ilya in. Five seconds to shed the terror of the night. Shane presses a kiss to Ilya's head. Then he stands up and gets to work. 

Ilya is pretty out of it as Shane tends to his injuries. He manages half a bottle of water and some ibuprofen but turns green at the offer of food. He tenses as Shane cleans the last of the blood from his face but doesn't make a sound. There's something devastatingly wrong about Ilya Rozanov's pained silence. He is normally so euphorically loud with his endless chirps and his blinding grin and his big, boisterous laugh. 

Shane pushes back Ilya's mess of curls to reveal the wound at his temple. The too-perfect circle of it. Like a crest on a ring. 

He seethes until the anger becomes a solid lump in his gut.

Using tape scissors, he cuts off Ilya's dress shirt, soaked through as it is with blood. It goes right in the bin. Pieces of it stick to his skin and Shane dutifully wets the fabric to work it off without tugging at Ilya's wounds. His torso is a mess of color. There are deep welts on his back that look like someone used a belt on him. 

Shane goes to throw up in the hall bathroom. He can't even begin to process this - doesn't want to. Splashing cold water on his face, he tries to shake off the anger and revulsion. As a professional hockey player, he sees blood and gore on the regular. But never injuries with so much hatred behind them. 

He steals the wastebasket from the bathroom. Ilya will need somewhere to throw up when/if the concussion symptoms hit. Then he gets ice from the vending machine. Two giant bags of it. 

As he re-enters the room he's startled to find Ilya sitting up and looking relatively alert. His posture sinks back into a slouch as Shane closes the door. 

"Brought you ice," he explains needlessly. 

There's something about the way Ilya tracks his movement that's unsettling. Shane doesn't clock it until he sets the ice on the bed and Ilya flinches away. 

The flinch hangs between them.

Shane does the only thing he can think of and kisses Ilya's kneecap. Then the side of his thigh. With a sixth sense that seems particular to Ilya Rozanov, he feels the tension bleed from the other man. Shane works his way higher. He arranges a bag of ice over the bruising on his ribs. 

"Sorry," Rozanov grunts.

Shane kisses his navel. "No sorries." A kiss to the sternum. "Your pupils are dilated. I'm gonna wake you every few hours to check that it doesn't get worse."

He gets a hum of agreement. 

"You'll tell me if anything starts to hurt worse, okay?"

Another hum. Rozanov won't meet his eyes. Shane lets him hide, pressing one more soft kiss to his hairline before going to turn off the lights.

He shucks off his shirt and sweats and carefully maneuvers into the tiny bed. The cardboard creaks under their combined weight. Shane settles behind Rozanov, sitting up, and lays him in his lap. He runs through the mental checklist: puke bucket, ice, painkillers. 

Ilya interrupts his careful list when he reaches up to take Shane's hand. He presses a kiss to the back of his knuckles. Shane feels it all throughout his body. 

"Shane," Ilya says, his voice low and rough. "Thank you."

Shane swallows back tears. "You never have to thank me for this." 

Ilya falls off the ledge into sleep.

After a while, Shane shifts and grabs his phone. He thumbs open Google. 

test for concussion

how to know if a concussion is serious?

how to tell if ribs bruised/broken?

signs of internal bleeding

best pain medication for face swelling

how to say "you're safe" in Russian

*

The official guidance says to wake someone with a possible concussion every 2 hours. Shane checks every hour that night. Just to be safe.

The first time he wakes him, Ilya is adorably confused.

"Why you do this?" He leans the entire weight of his head against the palm of Shane's hand. 

"Concussion protocol," Shane reminds him.

He grumbles something in Russian. There's enough annoyance in his tone to tell Shane that he understands what's going on. He just doesn't like it.

Shane can live with that.

*

The second time is also easy. His pupils are still dilated but not worse than before. 

"Who's the current president?" Shane asks.

"Putin. Is always Putin."

"Fine. Who's president in America?"

"The uh, husband of Michelle."

"Good enough."

*

The third time is different. Maybe Ilya finally slips into a deeper sleep. Maybe his body hits a level of exhaustion that shouldn't be interrupted. He doesn't come to right away. Not when Shane whispers his name, or shakes him, or kisses him. 

It freaks Shane the fuck out. 

"Ilya!" He says again, way too loud and right in his ear. 

Ilya jerks like he's been struck by lightning. He throws himself off of Shane. There's a terrible moment where Shane thinks he's going to hurt himself worse and so he fumbles for the bedside lamp and illuminates Ilya retching into the trashcan. 

Shane's at his side in an instant. Hovering. He doesn't want to overstimulate Ilya with touch and ends up awkwardly patting his shoulder. Ilya spits up another mouthful of stomach acid. Shane passes him a water bottle and doesn't comment when Ilya swishes and spits into the waste basket. When he's done, he leans back and wipes his mouth with the back of his hand. Sweat beads at his temples. Shane wants to check him for fever, clean out the vomit, make sure his pupils are still the same size - 

Ilya lets out a strangled sob and breaks into tears. 

Some forces of gravity are too powerful. Shane is in Ilya's arms - or Ilya is in his - and they're both sniffling, sobbing wrecks. It's an emotion unlike any Shane has ever felt before. Like the force of Ilya's pain is a tidal wave and its undertow pulls Shane with it. For a few minutes they are crying the same tears, feeling the same fear, aching the same ache. 

When they've cried themselves out they move back to the bed in unspoken agreement. Shane puts out the light and lets Ilya move him as he pleases. Everything is disorienting in the dark, in the small bed, in the cold and unfamiliar room. All Shane knows is that they have merged together. His own chest moves because Ilya's does.

He can't hold it in any longer. "I'm so glad Svetlana called me," Shane admits. 

There's a press of lips against his collarbone in response. 

"I am sorry that she had to."

"Don't be. It's not your fault."

Ilya's silence speaks volumes.

"No one should ever hurt you like that. Especially your family."

Ilya's shrug is miniscule but Shane feels it in his bones. "That is just how they are."

"I hate that," Shane says, fury creeping into his voice. Then, "Are they all like that?" He can barely imagine knowing one person so cruel, but to be surrounded by them every time he visits home . . . 

"Not Sveta."

"Svetlana lives in America." Shane instantly feels contrite for arguing and presses another kiss to Ilya's chin. "It just . . . it kills me to think you're all alone when you come here."

"I did not use to be," says Ilya. The words are soft, fragile. "My mother was not like them. She was so good to me."

"What happened to her?"

When Ilya responds the words are flat and practiced. Like he has turned off his emotions. Like he could not say the words otherwise.

"She killed herself. With pills."

A low whine escapes Shane. 

Ilya keeps going. "I found her. I was twelve." 

Everything Shane can think to say feels stupid or wrong or far too honest. I'm sorry. You must miss her. I'm here. I'll watch over you now.

"I don't want you to think she was weak."

"I don't. I don't think that." Shane presses his cheek into Ilya's.

"Okay," Ilya says, soft and broken-sounding. 

Shane can't leave it like that. "Je suis là pour toi. Je suis là, Ilya," he whispers, and rocks them together until the tremors ease from their bodies. 

Chapter Text

Day finally breaks. Shane slips out from Ilya's grasp, feeling fuzzy with exhaustion. It's one of those sunny winter days where the light streams in, all buttery yellow. It's the first time they've ever woken up in the same place. 

He hates that. Hates how Grigori Rozanov stole a soft, sleepy morning from them and replaced it with this. 

The bruising looks worse in daylight. The side of his torso is so swollen and red it almost looks infected. Carefully avoiding Ilya's identifiable bear tattoo, Shane snaps a photo of his ribs. Maybe he can text it to the Metro's team doctor, say he has a friend on Team Canada who wants a second opinion? Not for the first time, he feels hopelessly out of his depth.

The alarm on his phone chimes. Time to get ready for morning skate. 

It's laughable, really. After the longest night of Shane's life, he's still happy to go play hockey. 

What doesn't excite him is the prospect of leaving Rozanov here alone. Logically, Shane knows he'll only be gone an hour and a half. Two tops. He can skip PT, grab breakfast on the go, and be back here in time for another concussion check. He forces down an organic protein bar and shoves on his practice uniform.

Still, when the moment comes, he hesitates. Firstly, because he doesn't want to leave. Secondly, because he's scared to wake Rozanov. Last night . . . He's never seen Rozanov like that before. Scared. Vulnerable. Crying. And that isn't to say that crying isn't a totally valid reaction to what happened to him. Shane just doesn't know how Rozanov will be in the aftermath. Will he regret telling Shane about his mother? Will he pretend none of it happened? 

And it's not just Rozanov. 

Shane remembers last night as if it were another person. Shane Hollander doesn't sneak out of the Olympics, or break into houses, or call his rival-fuckbuddy-situationship baby. But that's apparently a lie. Because Shane Hollander very much did do those things. And even if Rozanov is too concussed to remember it, Shane knows. Shane knows and he is different for it. He knows himself differently now - and he doesn't think he's capable of shoving that down.

But he has to try.

"Morning," he says, a hand going to Ilya's arm. Ilya blinks awake. His forehead crinkles with pain. 

"Huhh?" comes his wordless protest.

"I have to go to morning skate. I'll be back by ten, okay?"

No response, but Ilya lets Shane check his eyes. Lets him ghost a touch over his cheekbone, where the scabbing has formed. 

"Does anything hurt in a scary way? Like, that you think you need a doctor for?"

Ilya's eyes flutter closed. "No. Hurts normal amount."

"Okay. There's water and ibuprofen when you're ready. And protein bars."

"Da. Thanks." 

"Don't look at any screens. Unless there's an emergency and you need to call me or Svetlana."

Ilya's eyes slit open, and his mouth curls into an almost smirk. Like he has something to be smug about. "Hollander, you are fussing. You will be late."

"I'm just making sure - "

"Go. Will be fine."

"Right. Okay." Shane hesitates an awkwardly long moment. Then he kisses Ilya's forehead and bolts out the door. 

*

Practice takes forever. Shane tries not to push himself, very aware that his body and mind have not had their usual 8 hours of rest. He declines offers to join some of the other Team Canada guys for lunch. Says he wants to get started on his pre-game rituals. 

The game isn't until 6 o'clock though, so Shane races back to the dorms with plenty of time. He chooses not to think about the swoop in his gut when he sees Ilya still there, sleeping in his bed.

He wakes him, checks him over, and decides it's time for a shower. Also, the puke basket must go. 

Luckily, most of this hall was occupied by snowboarders whose events have finished. Shane double checks the bathroom then locks it from the inside. 

"Ah, so that's what this is," Ilya teases. 

Shane doesn't dignify him with a reply. 

Still, as he gets Ilya under the spray and gently washes him, Shane starts to wish for their usual banter. Ilya is clearly just managing to keep himself upright. It's obvious he's in pain from the way he holds himself. There's just not much Shane can do about that. He doesn't have a response from the Metro's doctor yet - it's the middle of the night in Canada. So he towels Ilya down and hopes he's not royally fucking this up.

They get back to the room without incident. Shane tries to settle Ilya on the bed and ends up being pulled down with him.

"Nap time," Ilya declares.

Shane grunts his agreement.

*

Ilya is still sleeping when Shane wakes to prep for the game. He spends ten minutes on Google reassuring himself that this is normal. That bodies need sleep to heal. 

Tom, the Metro's doctor, texts him back. He comments that it must have been a nasty hit on the ice but, unless he feels any sharp pains or shortness of breath, there's nothing to be done. Shane thumbs ups the message.

He has a dozen more messages wishing him good luck tonight. It gives him the strangest sensation of being two people in one body. There's the Shane cuddling an injured and emotionally fragile Ilya Rozanov. And there's the Shane who is about to play a medal-determining match. At the Olympics. 

Fuck.

*

Shane: I have a game tonight.

Lily's Friend: duh

Shane: Is there any way you can come check on him halfway through? 

Lily's Friend: It would be very risky.

Lily's Friend: how is he?

Shane: sleeping a lot

Shane: I think he's concussed

Shane: Sent my home doctor a picture of his ribs. He says there probably isn't internal bleeding.

Lily's Friend: told you so

Lily's Friend: you sent someone a picture of him?

Shane: yeah, made sure to include his face and the stupid bear tattoo

Lily's Friend: sorry

Lily's Friend: I'm used to dealing with him

Lily's Friend: and he's an idiot

Shane: truth

Shane: so you really can't come check on him?

Lily's Friend: I will call

Lily's Friend: during the game

Lily's Friend: and you will come straight back after

Shane: you'll call twice

Lily's Friend: deal

Lily's Friend: tough negotiator

Lily's Friend: you must get it from your mom

Shane: why do you know anything about my mom? 

*

They win. Shane is leaving Russia with an Olympic medal. Just one more game to determine if it's silver or gold. 

"You're lucky our goalie was injured." This is Ilya's way of saying congratulations.  

"Fuck off."

"No, no it's good. You will have a medal that I don't. Like how I have a Hart and you don't." 

"Seriously?" Shane tries to sound indignant but the bite is softened by how gently he's climbing into bed next to his #1 hater Ilya Rozanov.

"I could make you sleep on the floor," he grumbles into Ilya's shoulder.

"You cannot," says Ilya primly. "Is illegal to deny me cuddles."

"Since when?"

"Since always. First law of Russia: No gay people. Second law: Ilya Rozanov gets cuddles whenever he wants."

"Well since I'm already breaking the first law . . . "

Ilya blows a raspberry at him. 

*

The next day is . . . challenging. Ilya sleeps late and wakes restless and sullen. Shane gets it. The guy is stuck in this tiny room, in pain, and he can't even look at screens for a distraction.

Shane tries to entertain him with a card game. It fails miserably. Every game they both know seems to have slightly different rules from how the other has played it. They end up bickering until Shane decides to teach him something new. Ilya zones out less than a minute into the instructions. He mutters something about a headache and goes back to the bed.

Annoyed, Shane pulls out a book and ignores him for a while. 

Ilya is quiet for so long that Shane assumes he's napping. When Shane closes his book, he's genuinely startled to see Ilya's eyes still open. It puts him immediately on edge. Ilya lies perfectly still, staring at nothing. 

He thinks he should say something. But what?

I'm sorry your dad beats you. I'm sorry your mom died. I'm sorry this is the best I can give you. 

No. He can't say any of that.

*

The phone rings that afternoon.

"My parents," Shane warns before accepting the call. He's back on the bed. Their sides touch. A détente. 

"Congrats on the game!" his dad says. 

"Feeling ready for the finals?" comes his mom. 

It's nice to drop back into a practiced pattern. He goes through their usual post-game debrief. His mom gives her opinion on the upcoming final. In two days he'll be an Olympic champion.

Then Ilya starts mouthing at his boxers. 

Shane nearly drops the phone. He shoots a withering glare and scoots as far away as the tiny bed will allow. Message sent.

Ilya sneaks his fingers up Shane's thigh. Message ignored. 

"One second," Shane says. He hits mute. Turns on Ilya. 

"What are you doing?"

Ilya raises an eyebrow. "I think you like what I'm doing."

"No."

Ilya raises a second eyebrow.

And fine. In another circumstance - a very different circumstance - maybe Shane could be into this. If he hadn't spent the past two days having one never-ending panic attack about his and Rozanov's safety. If this wasn't the Olympics. If it wasn't his parents on the phone. 

"This is not the time. Cut it out." It comes out harsher than he intends. 

"It has been months. Your dick does not miss me?" There's a challenge in Rozanov's eyes. But it isn't playful, it's hard-edged and biting. 

"You are concussed and injured and should be resting," Shane insists. Easier to turn it back on Rozanov. 

"Is fine. I’m not some broken toy, Hollander.” Rozanov moves his hand farther up and Shane launches from the bed. 

He slips in headphones and grabs his keys before unmuting. "Sorry," he tells his parents. "Cell service is bad in here. Gonna take a walk." 

*

After the call, Shane goes for a long run. It’s a blatant attempt to try to calm the nerves that threaten to drown him. This whole situation is insane. He’s illegally harboring a non-athlete in his dorm room. None other than Ilya fucking Rozanov. What does he think he’s doing? He’s supposed to be focused on the Olympics, not risking it all for a guy who hardly seems to like him today. Rozanov might even resent him for showing up when he was at his most vulnerable. It was Svetlana who called him, after all. 

But Shane knows that’s not what this is. Sure, he and Rozanov get on each other’s nerves all the damn time. The guy can be an asshole. But anyone can see that he’s hurting. Shane can’t begin to imagine what it would feel like to have his family turn on him like that. He can be patient. And Ilya will talk about it when he's ready. 

By the end of the run he’s feeling much more in control. The final is the day after tomorrow. Rozanov’s flight to Boston is scheduled for the following day. They’ll get through this and Shane can leave Russia with a gold medal, knowing he did a good thing for a friend. 

Friend?

It’ll all be fine. 

*

Someone (Svetlana) has arranged for food to appear at regular intervals. The trouble lies in getting Ilya to eat any of it. He’s being, for lack of a better term, an absolute pest.

“Your stomach hurts because you keep taking pain killers without any food,” Shane says, watching Ilya rattle the bottle of ibuprofen with displeasure. His swollen face - purple and red and raw - scowls back at Shane.

Ilya puts the bottle down. “Fine. Then I will not take.”

“Your ribs are broken. You absolutely will take pain medication.” Shane gets up from where he’s stretching on the floor to force the bottle back into Ilya’s hands. Then, for good measure, he tosses a protein bar into Ilya’s lap.

From Ilya’s stormy expression, Shane has just declared war.

“Oh, I get it now,” he says, all horrible condescension. “This is a fetish thing. You want to play nursemaid so you can suck my cock?”

“Jesus Christ, Rozanov, what is your problem?”

“Stop this.” Rozanov turns away, as if exhausted by the conversation. “I do not need a babysitter, Hollander.”

“Well, Svetlana seems to think you do.” Shane throws it out, selfishly hoping it backfires. He doesn’t want Ilya to behave because of Svetlana worrying about him. 

Ilya does that dismissive flick of his wrist that he absolutely knows Shane hates.

“I’m trying to help here. Do you have to be such an asshole about it?”

“Yes.”

Shane wordlessly packs his gear for practice. If a little aggressively. And far earlier than he needs to. But he’s fed up with Ilya’s moods. He glances around to look for his water bottle and sees Ilya on his phone. 

“Hey. No screens.”

Ilya ignores him. “Is fine. I am texting Svetlana.”

Shane can’t seem to help himself. “You. Are. Concussed.” He moves to snatch the phone but Ilya turns over to block him. “Tell me what you need from Svetlana and I will text her myself,” he grits out.

“I am asking her to book me a hotel.” 

Shane stops dead in his tracks. “What. Why?”

“Why do you think? So I can go be an asshole somewhere else, yes?” Ilya’s turned away from him. Resolutely not looking at Shane. His tone is so casual. But Shane has spent the last several years learning Ilya’s body, and he knows how tightly wound he is right now. And not in the fun way.

"You're not going to a hotel."

There's something almost cruel in Ilya's gaze. "Ah, I see. Has been so long since we fuck that you forget how this works. I tell you what to do."

"No. You're hurt. You're staying here." Shane's pulse thuds in his ears. His body feels like cement. Why is Ilya doing this?

"You know what hurts? This stupid cardboard bed. That is what hurts. This terrible bed, and your terrible clothes, and your annoying fucking rules -"

"It's not my fault you don't bother to take care of -"

"Don't look at your phone, Ilya," he mocks. "Don't leave the room, Ilya. Don't breathe near me, Ilya. Is worse than being with my family."

Shane's heart squeezes. "You don't mean that."

"I do," Ilya spits. "At least they do not pretend to care."

Anger strikes Shane speechless. He's spent the past 48 hours holding Ilya while he cries, cleaning up his vomit, kissing him to sleep. And Rozanov accuses him of not actually caring?

"Fuck this," he says. He's so angry he's shaking. Can hardly feel his body as he grabs his things and leaves.

Shane gets halfway down the stairs before the panic hits. 

Chapter Text

There's a snarling, rabid animal in Ilya that has taken control. An animal that knows it will be kicked again - and lashes out anyway.

"Don't look at your phone, Ilya," he mocks. "Don't leave the room, Ilya. Don't breathe near me, Ilya. Is worse than being with my family."

The expression on Shane's face is a gut punch.

"You don't mean that." 

"I do," Ilya spits. "At least they do not pretend to care."

Finally, Hollander's control slips. The worried lines of his forehead crease into new, angry angles. "Fuck this," he says.

Ilya watches him leave.

The pain in his chest flares sharply. Is he bleeding internally after all? He almost hopes he is. 

This is a new low. Even for Ilya. He has hurt people, of course. With his fists. With his words. He is a violent man, and he causes pain. Teaches bullies a lesson. Brings them down a peg. Shuts his brother up for once. This is different, though.

It is the first time Ilya hurts someone in order to hurt himself. 

He tries to stand. To force himself to collect his things. He won't subject Hollander to this any longer. But Ilya can't seem to make it to his feet. He sits, knees on elbows, head in hands, attempting to gather the courage to leave someone who isn't even his to leave. Long minutes crawl by where all Ilya does is tug at his hair and think about how pathetic he's being. 

The door bursts open. 

Maybe he really is concussed, because there's no way Shane Hollander has come back for him. 

Shane's usual steady composure is totally gone. He breathes like he sprinted to the stadium and back. His eyes are puffy and red. And he's looking at Ilya in a way that makes him want to cower and cry at the same time. 

The shock has him speaking before he puts together a coherent thought. "You will be late for practice," Ilya says. He isn't quick enough to hide his concern. This is the Olympics. Shane is risking so much already and now he is late. Because of Ilya. Everything bad always seems to be because of Ilya. 

Shane say, “I couldn’t leave thinking you might be gone when I came back.” 

Ilya covers his face with his hands. I could not leave you. I tried. 

"Rozanov. Ilya, look at me." 

God help him, he obeys. 

Shane stands over him. In arm's length but hugging his elbows. Not touching, not reaching out, but here. Even being carried the other night did not make Ilya feel so small. Humiliation heats the back of his neck. He has been cruel and mean. He hurt Shane because of the hurt in himself.

He is just like his father.

"I'm sorry," Ilya says, "I did not mean it."

"I know that," says Shane, "Or, I want to know that. I just feel like I'm fucking this all up. Making it worse for you."

"No," says Ilya, "Never."

"I don't know how to help you. Do you . . . do you actually want me here?"

"I want, and I don't want. I don't know." It's not an answer, but it's the closest thing to the truth he can offer. 

Shane's eyes have gone glossy. “Is it really so terrible to have me take care of you?”

It’s like an anvil on Ilya’s chest. He feels the words gather in him like storm clouds.

Yes, it is terrible. It is like agony for you to touch me and for it never to hurt. I keep expecting it to hurt. It is so terrible how gentle you are. It is awful that you are so patient. And all I seem to do is wear away at your patience because I don’t know how to accept anything kind. The last person who looked at me like this was my mother. The last person to care for me like this killed herself. Sometimes I am scared that it was my fault, that I was such a burden, that my suffering was what finally broke her heart, and it would be truly terrible - worse than terrible - for the same thing to happen to you. 

He can’t say the words. He can hardly bear to think them. But Shane has always been a mind reader when it comes to Ilya, and he is terrified to have been heard anyway. He ducks his head to hide the tears, but it’s too late.

It’s been too late for a long time now.

"Ilya." There's Shane's hand on his face now. Holding him up. Stopping him from hiding. "I want to be here. I want to take care of you."

The dam inside of him breaks. "I don't know how to let you," Ilya confesses. 

Shane climbs into his lap and Ilya stifles a sob into the meat of his shoulder. His hands find their way into Ilya’s hair, cradling him. Ilya is leaving damp marks on Hollander’s official Olympics practice shirt.

"I'm sorry for being cruel," Ilya whispers.

"It's okay. I forgive you."

“I do not deserve it.” Ilya says. Because, even surrounded by Shane’s warmth, he doesn’t know how to accept it. "You should not have to do this. We are not even - " a couple, he almost says. And it's true. They've met in secret maybe a dozen times now. They text, but mostly as foreplay. They play hard on the ice and rib each other in interviews. He does not know Shane's birthday, or his parents' names, or his home address. Shane is, simultaneously, a perfect stranger, and the person who knows Ilya best in the world. 

"I know we aren't," says Shane. "But I need you to know this," he gestures between them, "isn't nothing to me."

Another wave of guilt pours over Ilya. He'd thrown those words at Shane so carelessly. 

He feels like an open wound. It goes against every ingrained animal instinct to give away anything more. Especially something that could be used against him. But if Ilya is not strong enough to push Shane away, he vows to at least be less cruel.

"I was scared when I said that," Ilya admits. "It scared me how much I had missed you. And I did not want to draw attention. Not here."

"I know. I missed you, too." Shane’s hands are on either side of his face now. His thumb brushes across Ilya’s cheek. For all his tenderness, Shane’s eyes are serious. “You can still go, though. If that’s what you want.”

Leaving Shane is the last thing in the world Ilya could ever want. 

He kisses him. Not urgently, but deeply. It sends a pinching feeling up the injured side of his face but he doesn’t care. Not when Shane’s tongue is in his mouth, and his hands are tugging at his hair, and the wet feel of tears turns into the wet ache of their mouths coming together in long, drugging movements. The kiss ends but their foreheads stay locked together. Shane exhales and Ilya breathes it in.

"So that means you'll stay?"

He is a weak, pathetic man.

"Yes. I stay." He puts his head in the crook of Shane's neck. Then, just in case, "I cannot promise I will make it easy," he warns. He knows himself better than that. 

He feels Shane's smile against his cheek. "Since when do I like doing anything easy?"

* 

Lily's friend: So no hotel?

Shane: no, we're fine here

Shane: can you send McDonald's to him while I'm at practice?

Lily's friend: I did not think you approved of McDonald's

Shane: I don't

Shane: get him the happy meal with the race car toy

Shane: and like 4 McGriddles 

Lily's friend: I knew you were the right choice, Hollander

*

They’re curled together in bed, and Ilya can feel Shane thinking. Worrying. 

"Yesterday," Shane says, "You spaced out for a while. You were just staring at nothing. It worried me."

Ah, so they are going to talk about it.

"Yes, sometimes this happens." He keeps his voice carefully neutral. He is trying to fight the instincts that would have him lash out at any prying question, but this is not something he has ever, ever talked about.

"Does it hurt?"

"No, is more like . . . heaviness. Everything slows down. If I try to move my body, is like building is on top of me." He doesn't have the words, in Russian or English, to fully pin down the feeling. Too much nothingness, maybe. But how can you have too much of nothing? 

"What should I do if it happens again?" Shane asks.

Ilya feels an unbearable wave of fondness. Shane loves to fix things. But, he fears, Shane cannot fix this.

"I don't know," he says, because he doesn't. "I think maybe being near helps. There is not much to do."

"So I just sit there and let it pass?" Shane asks. Ilya can tell he doesn't like this plan. 

“Svetlana worries I am like my mother,” he admits. 

Shane goes rigid against him. He takes a beat to respond. “Are you?”

“I have never hurt myself. I do not want to die.”

Shane, apparently scenting blood in the water, doesn’t let it slide. He waits Ilya out for a long minute before prompting, “But?”

He runs his tongue over his teeth and feels all the fillings from so many brawls on (and off) the ice. Pain has never scared Ilya. Death rarely does, either. He swallows roughly against the tightening in his throat. Forces the words out.

“I think maybe I am sad. Like she was sad. I think that is what makes me so heavy."

Shane makes an unhappy sound but starts giving Ilya head scritches, so he thinks it's okay. 

"Will you tell me when you feel sad like that?" 

Ilya thinks about it. "Sometimes I do not know that is what I am feeling when it happens. But when I know, I will tell you."

"Okay," Shane agrees. He accepts it easily, the same way he accepts every shitty thing Ilya reveals to him. 

"Tell me a secret," Ilya says. 

"What? Why?"

"You know too many of mine. We need . . . more even baseball grass."

Shane laughs. "You mean we need to level the playing field."

"Da, this."

"I don't really have secrets. Except for you, obviously."

"No. Even you are not that boring." Ilya pokes him in the tender part of his side. The little squirm he gets in response is immensely satisfying. "Come on, is not fair. You get my secrets from Svetlana, and from me when I am concussed. This is cheating." He keeps his tone light because, really, Ilya doesn't mind that Shane knows. But it bothers him to think how one-sided it all is.

"It's not cheating," Shane grumbles. 

Ilya waits him out.

"Okay," Shane finally says, "I'm not sure how much this counts as a secret but, I can be really nitpicky about stupid things."

"Nitpicky?"

"Particular. Like, I know a lot of hockey players are superstitious but if I don't have the right stick tape it will bother me the entire time. Enough to affect my gameplay."

"Yes," Ilya agrees, "You like things in order, I have noticed. This is not big secret."

"No, uh. I guess the secret is that sometimes I get like, hypersensitive to those small things that bother me. And then I freak out."

This is surprising, but also not. He knows Shane likes to plan things. Knows he is quick to worry. "Freak out like panic attack?"

"Kind of. It's like everything gets too loud and scratchy. My ears hurt. My clothes fit wrong. I can't stop thinking about how my tongue sits in my mouth. It's like my brain overloads and shuts down. And I'll start doing weird things to, I don't know, control it? Like pack and repack my bag over and over. Or rip out individual hairs on my legs. Or just rock back and forth. Stuff like that."

"This happens to you often?"

"Not that often. It happened way more when I was a kid. Now I'm better at hiding it. Usually I can hold off the shutdown until I'm alone. I think Hayden knows, cause sometimes he'll get extra careful with me when he can tell I'm getting worked up. And my parents know, of course. But I've never actually talked about it with anyone before."

Ilya takes Shane's fingers and kisses them. "Thank you for telling me." Then, smirking, "Is good secret. Not as juicy as mine but -"

"Hey!" Shane shoves him playfully, and even though it jostles Ilya's still-healing ribs, it's worth it. "You know we don't have to compete about literally everything."

"You only say this because you lost."

Shane snorts. "Asshole," but it comes out all soft and sleepy. 

Ilya knows he should let Shane sleep. The Olympic final is tomorrow, after all. But he has something important to ask. 

"Next time you feel the shutdown coming you tell me, okay? Even if I am not there. You can call."

He feels Shane swallow. "Do you actually want that?"

Desperately.

"Yes, I want. I let you take care of me now and, when you need, you let me take care of you. Level playing field."

He gives Shane's hand a squeeze. Shane squeezes back.

"Okay. Yeah. Level playing field."

Chapter Text

Ilya is giving him that look that says he's freaking out over nothing. Which Shane thinks is unfair, given there's been a lot of very legitimate things to freak out about this week. Shane repeats himself, hoping Ilya will understand and get on board with the incoming panic attack.

"My team threatened to come here to my dorm and kidnap me if I don't go out to celebrate with them tonight." He waits for a reaction. "That means they'd come here. Where you are."

"So go out with your team," Ilya says, mouth full of bagel sandwich. It would be annoying if Shane weren't so happy to see his appetite return. 

"I'm already leaving you for a really long time." 

Ilya licks cream cheese off his thumb. Shane tries valiantly not to be distracted by it.

"Is not so long. I will live."

Shane does the mental math for the umpteenth time. He needs to be at the rink early for media. The pre-show is longer than usual, because this is an Olympic final. Then there’s the game itself, followed by the medals ceremony. Post-game interviews. Group photos. Assuming his team wins (which they will) he'll have to be out with the guys for at least an hour or two to avoid suspicion. That adds up to an unacceptable number of hours to leave Ilya behind.

Ilya appears to sense that they have entered panic attack territory. He obstructs Shane's pacing and takes his hand. "Sveta will call. Like last time. She will check up on me, yes?"

"She can't. I asked her this morning but she has to be at the game the whole night because Vetrov is presenting the medals."

Finally, Ilya's expression shifts. "Ah. This is problem." Shane thinks he's coming around. Then, "If only I  was 23 year old man who lived on his own in a foreign country and was captain of world's best hockey team. Then I could be trusted to be alone for a few hours." 

"You're such a dick," Shane says with the most scathing glare he can muster.

"You are fussing again."

Impatience rises in Shane and he makes himself take a breath. This doesn't need to turn into a fight. 

"I know you're a grown man," he says, "But you're still seriously hurt. You have a head injury. What if you start having shortness of breath? What if you need to go to the hospital and there's no one you can call?" Shane thinks to their conversation last night where Ilya confessed to feeling heavy . . . to being sad, sometimes. What if he has an episode like that again and there's no one to keep him company? 

"I will be okay," Ilya insists. 

"It's not even really about you being okay on your own. It's that I won't play well knowing you're alone." 

This finally gets a real reaction from Ilya. "Hollander, I don't want to be the reason you play badly." 

"I'm not - I'm not blaming you or anything. It's just true. Even if it's unlikely you'll have a seizure while I'm gone, I'll be worrying about it. I can't help myself."

That just about sums up this whole situation: Impractical, frustrating, and Shane can't seem to help himself. Can't seem to stop. When this thing with Rozanov started it was meant to be a one-time event. Then it was supposed to be casual. And somehow they've ended up here, sharing a bed, in Russia, with Shane as Rozanov's emergency fucking contact. Now it's far too late.

Shane thinks it was probably too late from the moment their hands met around that water bottle.

"Okay," says Ilya. "Let's find one person to tell who can stay with me tonight."

Shane blinks at him in surprise. The idea of telling someone new never even crossed his mind. Frankly, he's still putting off the freak out over the fact that Svetlana knows.

"Who would we even tell?" Shane's parents weren't able to make it out (it's the height of tax season for his dad). His teammates will all be on the ice, and he hardly knows any of them to begin with.

Ilya thinks for a long time. "There is always Sasha."

"Your old coach's son?"

Ilya nods. 

Shane considers it. While he hates the idea of Ilya's ex-hookup looking after him, maybe it's the right compromise to make. Sasha is also queer, and Russian. He understands what's at stake here. But . . . 

"Svetlana could have called him. The night you were hurt. Why didn't she?"

Ilya drops his gaze. "He is not the most reliable, and . . . "

"And?"

Ilya shrugs. "And he does not know when to stop." He doesn't elaborate.

Shane wants to push. Stop as in partying? Stop as in sex? Anger bubbles up in him. No, Shane decides. Not Sasha.

"Do you have another idea?"

Nothing could have prepared Shane for when Ilya asks, "Is Hunter still in town?"

"Hunter? As in Scott Hunter? You hate that guy!" Shane actually sputters he's so taken aback. 

Ilya laughs. "No, he is just very fun to chirp."

"But - But I fought him!" Shane doesn't even know why he's protesting so much. 

"Yes, was baby fight. No punches thrown. And you went to see figure skating together this week. So you and him are fine, no?"

"Well, yeah. It's just - the fight was about something he said. About you."

"About me?" 

"Yeah, he basically implied he knew about the two of us. He chirped me about it. Aren't you worried he's gonna be homophobic?" 

Ilya rolls his eyes, winces, and then pouts when he catches Shane's knowing look. 

"Scott Hunter is gay. He will not be homophobic."

Shane does a double take. "Scott Hunter's gay? How do you know that?"

"I have perfect gaydar. Took one look at you and knew. Same for Hunter."

"What - You didn't - I'm not even - "

Ilya neatly interrupts Shane's impending meltdown. "Also, from what you say he probably already knows about us, and he has not told anyone. So he is safe option." Ilya tugs on his arm, forcing Shane to sit. "Take a breath, Hollander. Is a good idea."

Shane begrudgingly mulls it over. He likes Scott, looks up to him, even. Scott is generally private, reserved, like Shane is. Aside from their one fight they've always gotten along. The thought of another player in the league knowing about them makes Shane feel like bugs are crawling all over him. But the alternatives are 1) Sasha or 2) Ilya being alone.

"Okay," he says, "Let's ask Hunter."

*

Scott blinks twice at the name on his caller ID. Why the hell is Shane Hollander calling him on the day of the Olympic Men's Hockey Final? It's curiosity more than anything that prompts Scott to answer the phone.

"Hey, Rook, what's up?"

"Hi Hunter. Scott. It's Hollander. Well, you already know that."

Even for Hollander this is a weird opening line. 

"Is everything okay?" Scott wonders if the pre-game jitters are hitting him. It's the kid's first Olympics, and he's playing for a gold medal. 

"Yeah, well, mostly. Listen, are you still in Sochi?"

"Yeah. Flying back tomorrow. I figured I'd stay for the finals and all." 

"Okay. In that case, there's a huge favor I need to ask you." 

This is the strangest phone call of Scott's life. But Hollander is a good guy, and he seems extra strung out today. Plus, if whatever this favor is can help Hollander beat Sweden tonight, Scott won't be mad about it. Not after Sweden knocked the U.S. out of the competition. 

"What's the favor?" 

*

Scott doubts his sanity the entire walk to the Olympic Village. Hollander had been weirdly cryptic the rest of the phone call. This is all Scott knows: Hollander has a friend who is not on Team Canada but somehow here in Sochi. That friend is injured and needs someone to keep an eye on him. For a confusing list of reasons that amounted to Russia, Politics, Sensitive Family Matter, the friend can't go to a hospital. Hollander is keeping this friend in his dorm room, but he'll be gone tonight for the finals. Therefore, Scott will take over nurse duty.

"He'll probably sleep through most of it," Hollander insisted. "You can watch the game on my laptop. Or bring a book."

Scott didn't mention that no straight man would nursemaid their friend back to health. During the Olympics. In a single bed dorm. He's wondered about Shane being gay before but he figures now isn't the time to address it head on. The guy is practically buzzing with anxiety today. 

Kip has several theories about who the mysterious "friend" might be. Scott has a theory himself. He just desperately wants to be wrong.

Scott is not wrong.

Shane Hollander opens the door to his dorm and there, on the bed, is Ilya fucking Rozanov. 

Scott swears. 

As much as he suspected it, he can't begin to comprehend the scene before him. Hollander shuts the door behind them before immediately retreating to Rozanov's side like a guard dog. Rozanov stretches languidly on the single bed, but the effect is marred by the pile of ice packs on his ribs and shoulder. 

Scott needs to sit down. He more or less collapses into a plastic folding chair that appears to have been dragged in from the outside.

"Are you going to have a problem with this?" says Rozanov, and oh yeah, Scott remembers that Roz can be a scary bastard.

A hysterical laugh escapes him. "No problem. Well, no more problem than I always have with you, Roz."

The tension eases considerably. In any other circumstance, Scott would be really glad to know that two younger players felt safe coming out to him. 

Why did it have to be these little shits?

"Shane stole that chair so you wouldn't have to sit near me," Rozanov grins.

"It's not stealing, it's borrowing." 

Only now, as the initial shock of Hollander and Rozanov being Hollander-and-Rozanov subsides, does Scott register the gruesome bruising. Rozanov looks like he got run over by a truck. 

"What the fuck happened to you?"

He can practically see the hackles rising. "Lost a fight."

No way that's true. First, because Rozanov would never admit to losing. Second, the damage is so severe that he had to have been attacked unsuspectingly, and probably by multiple people. Scott wonders if he got mugged. 

"You should go to the police," Scott manages to say.

Rozanov makes a disgusted sound. "How many times I say this? My father is police. My brother is police. I cannot go to police about police."

It's like an ice bucket down Scott's spine. "Your dad and brother did this to you?"

Roz's expression shuts down so fast it gives Scott whiplash. He turns on Hollander. "I thought you told him."

Shane looks baffled. "I didn't tell him the details. I wanted to respect your privacy."

Rozanov gestures to his half-naked body and the cramped dorm room. "Yes because I clearly care so much about privacy."

Hollander shrugs him off. 

Roz lets his head thunk against the wall. Which he definitely isn't supposed to do with a concussion (and from the tension in Hollander's shoulders, they've already had that conversation). "Hollander, this is cruel. Now I will have to listen to world's most ancient man ask 5,000 questions. I will tell him what happened and he will forget and ask me again and again because his mind is so old and weak. You are leaving me to suffer, Shane."

"This weak old man made it farther in the Olympics than you, bud." Scott doesn't like to chirp a man when he's down (unlike Rozanov) but he's gotta hold some ground here. 

Surprisingly, Rozanov doesn't snark back. He just crosses his arms and glowers from his spot on the bed. Truth be told, now that the threat of Scott being homophobic is out of the way, it's the least menacing Roz has ever looked.  

Hollander clears his throat. "The number I sent you is one of Ilya's friends. She's Russian, but she's safe. If there's any kind of emergency please call her first. She'll know what to do." Scott nods appropriately as Hollander gives a somewhat long-winded speech about warning signs for possible medical emergencies. Privately, Scott wonders what the fuck rule-abiding Shane Hollander is doing getting involved with Ilya fucking Rozanov.

How. Just how. 

Roz interrupts the lecture. "Shane, I will not have heart attack. Calm down."

"What, Roz, you don't want me to have to give you CPR?" Scott teases. 

"No. Would rather die than have ancient Scott Hunter kiss me."

Hollander laughs at him. "You're such a liar. You think Hunter's hot."

Should he be offended? Scott honestly doesn't know what's worse - Rozanov thinking he's hot, or thinking he's not. 

"Is not true." And yeah, Rozanov is full-on pouting now.

Hollander smirks. "You said he was hot. In Vegas."

Vegas. It jostles a memory free in Scott's brain. He remembers their rookie season (the Hollander-Rozanov season for all intents and purposes) when Rozanov had thrown a string of numbers Hollander's way on the ice. 

No fucking way.

THE WHOLE TIME.

He doesn't care how late Hollander will be coming back from the game. Scott will 1000% be calling Kip right after to rant about that. Doesn't matter if it's six in the fucking morning. He has to express to someone just how un-fucking-believable this is. Tonight will be the debrief to put all other debriefs to shame.

A phone alarm interrupts Scott's impending freakout. 

Hollander clicks the alarm off then, sheepishly, says, "That's my five-minute warning."

Scott can tell he's still nervous about leaving Rozanov so, for Hollander's sake, he says, "Don't stress about it, Rook. We'll be just fine."

Shane's looking at him with those big, earnest eyes. "Thank you. This is . . . I don't know what I would've done if you hadn't been willing to help."

Scott thinks the Rook might be about to offer him a handshake. He neatly bypasses this with a brotherly pat on the shoulder. "Happy to do it, man."

"And thanks for, you know."

"Not being a total dick about you being gay?"

Hollander lets out one of his little huff laughs. "Yeah, that."

Roz chooses now to intercede. "He is not being a dick about it because his ego is crushed. Hunter finds out he is not the only gay hockey player in the league, true, but now he knows he is the worst gay hockey player in the league."

"Fuck off," Scott says. But he doesn't deny being gay. He finds he doesn't want to. 

"Don't worry," says Hollander, "He'll be asleep in half an hour. Ilya's all bark and no bite."

"Yes because you are the biter," Roz chirps back.

Hollander goes a hilarious shade of red. He stammers for a bit before deciding it's time to cut his losses and leave. He does this awkward check over his shoulder (like Scott would be looking anywhere but at the juicy drama occurring before his very eyes) and leans down to Rozanov.

"Rest up, okay?" Shane leans in for a chaste peck of the lips.

"Go win, moy lyubov," Rozanov tells him, then bumps their heads lightly together the way teammates do on the ice. 

Good fucking grief.

These idiots are in love. 

*

Shane leaves and they sit in brutally awkward silence for a full five minutes. Scott pretends to scroll on his phone. It feels like Rozanov is testing him. 

"You have questions, yes? Ask them." Rozanov finally says. It's blunt. An order.  

Scott weighs his options. Rozanov instigated, so this could be an attempt to bait him into a fight. Or an insult. Probably both. 

Still, Scott can't help it. He's fucking curious.

He matches Roz's demeanor. Keeps it casual as he leans back in the plastic chair. "I'm guessing your dad found out about you and Hollander and that's why he beat you up?"

He doesn't expect Roz to laugh. It's not the pleasant kind of laugh. "Fuck no. He did this because I lose to Latvia. Would be dead if he found me with a man."

A pit yawns open in Scott's stomach. It's crystal clear that Rozanov isn't joking. For Scott, it's not that he hasn't been aware of the danger in other countries like Russia. He, Vaughny, and Hollander talked about it just this week. The danger just hasn't been real for him. Not in the way it's real for Rozanov. 

Scott lets out a long breath. He recalibrates. It's not shame, exactly, that creeps over him. Scott won't be ashamed of being in the closet when there would be very real pushback for coming out. He could lose his career and maybe his friends. It's more that he realizes how far he's let his fear morph his perception of reality. Of course there could be real danger for him. Hate crimes happen everywhere. But he's White, and a man, and he's big and intimidating. He lives in the gayest city in America and has a luxury apartment with private security. His parents are dead, but even if they weren't, he wouldn't have to fear physical violence for coming out as gay. Scott's fear has lived inside him for so long, feeding on his anxiety, subsuming itself - consuming him. Controlling him. 

He thinks about the day he and Kip went to that art gallery. The panic of possible discovery felt so visceral and real. But it was all a what if. What if someone sees? What if people react badly? What if I lose hockey over this? By imagining the most catastrophic scenarios, he's given that panic so much power over him.

It's not shame, it's just the truth. He doesn't have it half as bad as Rozanov; and Rozanov is twice as brave as him.

"You've got balls of steel," Scott tells him. Which is by far the nicest thing he's ever said to the guy.

"So you want to talk about my balls?" 

"No. I want to talk about why the fuck your dad would beat you up for losing a hockey game." Scott thinks he's (entirely against his will) starting to understand how Rozanov ticks. If you want a real answer, you can't let him bait you. 

He's not prepared for Rozanov's answer.

"I shamed him. I shamed Russia. I am Team Captain so it is my loss. My shame, my punishment."

The way Rozanov says punishment makes Scott's skin crawl.

"That's fucked up."

Rozanov shrugs. "Is normal."

Scott fights the instinct to argue. Not because it's actually normal or okay - nobody deserves what Rozanov's family has done to him. But because fighting back will give Rozanov the chance to justify it. From the way he's glaring, Scott almost thinks that's what he wants. 

And, quite honestly, Scott doesn't want to force Rozanov to have a heart to heart about his shitty, abusive family. He thinks that conversation would almost certainly backfire coming from anyone other than Shane Hollander.  

Scott takes a different approach. "Okay, well. Let me know when Russia's greatest shame needs help going to the bathroom." 

For a second Scott thinks he's gone too far.

Then a big, dopey smile breaks out over Roz's face. He laughs. Laughs enough that it's contagious. They laugh a lot longer than is really called for but, hey, that's what happens with trauma. Scott would know.

They eventually get ahold of themselves. 

"You are funny," Roz smiles. "Funny dinosaur Scott Hunter." 

Scott would deny it to anyone who asks, but he smiles back. 

Chapter Text

Hollander is right about Rozanov's energy levels. He nods off within 15 minutes of Scott being there. 

Scott debates texting Kip. He feels a little bad about the fact that he's basically outing Hollander and Rozanov to his boyfriend. There's just no way he can keep it from Kip, especially since he's aware of Scott's earlier suspicions. At least Kip isn't part of the hockey world. Still, maybe it's not smart to put all the details in a text.

That leaves Scott with nothing to do but sit and think. He takes in the room, mildly amused when he notices Roz has a pair of team Canada joggers on. It would be great fuel for hazing, if the guy wasn't halfway to death's door.

Rozanov is a light sleeper. He starts to come awake only 40 minutes later, wriggling about in discomfort. Scott hears a long suffering sigh. 

"You need something?" He tries to keep his tone light, remembering how awkward he'd felt the first time he got sick and Kip took care of him. Without parents, or a long term partner, he'd gotten used to being alone while sick. Scott had felt terribly young and foolish asking for Kip's help. He's pretty sure it's gonna be the same for Rozanov. 

The Russian makes a rough sound in the back of his throat. "No."

"It's hard to believe you when you're making noises like a dying animal."

Another sigh. As if Scott is the one being difficult here. 

"If you won't tell me what's wrong I'll just make you ice your ribs again," he threatens. He's broken ribs before and it absolutely sucks. What especially sucks is how your whole body absorbs the cold from the ice packs on your chest. Takes forever to get warm again. 

There's the sound of Russian indignation. Then, "Is my back. Healing makes it itchy."

Scott can work with this. "Alright, you want help cleaning the wound?"

Rozanov shakes his head, eyes still closed. "Is clean. There is . . . jelly. To keep from being dry. Can you . . . ?"

Standing, Scott rummages through the various first aid items. Hollander clearly stocked up. He finds the petroleum jelly. It is not lost on him how similar the texture is to lube. But he is not thinking about that. 

"Roll over so I can put this on."

"Your boyfriend will not be jealous I am on my stomach for you?" 

"Don't fucking make this weird, Rozanov."

It's already so, so weird.

"So you admit you have boyfriend?" Roz taunts, turning carefully to his stomach.  

"Yeah, and he's hotter than you."

Roz laughs into the pillow. "Impossible." 

Having established that he is a taken man, Scott forces himself over to the bed. He gets his first look at Rozanov's back and it's like a fist clenches on his lungs. A dozen or so welts crisscross Rozanov's back. The skin is red and angry, cracked and splitting in places. No wonder it itches.

"Did your dad fucking whip you?"

Rozanov clicks his tongue disapprovingly. "No. Was with belt. Unlike you, we are not in Middle Ages."

"Hitting you with a belt is very Middle Ages," Scott argues. He smears jelly over the kid's back.

Rozanov grunts, maybe in agreement, maybe in pain. His muscles tense up beneath Scott's hand as he gingerly rubs the jelly in.

When he's done, Scott sneaks to the hall bathroom to wash the jelly off his hands. He finds himself bent over the sink. Scott didn't imagine the way Rozanov flinched when he touched him. He feels faintly ill. 

Scott steadies himself. Meets his own gaze in the mirror the way he does hyping himself up for a game. "Get it together," he tells himself. "It's fucking Rozanov."

Back in the room, Rozanov is still on his stomach. He cracks one eye when Scott enters but looks like he's barely clinging to consciousness. 

"You can use yoga mat and extra pillow," the kid says, "Will be more comfortable." 

Scott realizes there's a neat pile of a yoga mat, pillow, and a spare hoodie in the corner. Set aside for him, apparently.

"Am sorry to make you be on the floor. Could not order furniture delivery without too much attention."

"Let me check your pupils," Scott says. Rozanov is being way too nice to him. It's possible he's actually dying. 

Roz bats his hand away. "Enough. Am fine. Dizzy but fine, yes?" 

Scott lets it go. "You need anything else?"

A hum. "Socks. Am cold." 

And, true, the guy can't cover his exposed back while the jelly sets in. Scott dutifully finds a pair of socks and works them onto Rozanov's feet. He's a little relieved, and a lot worried, when Rozanov doesn't chirp him about having a foot fetish.

Scott notices the way Rozanov has his eyes scrunched up and his face pressed to the pillow. "I'm gonna turn off the lights so you can sleep better," he says. 

"You will wake me for the game?"

"Yeah, I'll wake you up for the game. Promise."

Scott must truly be losing his mind, because he thinks Ilya Rozanov says, "Thank you." 

*

"You're not allowed to look at the screen," Scott warns, pressing the power button on the laptop. 

"Yes, I know. Can only watch replay if Shane scores. Hollander gives many rules. He is a tyrant."

Scott shoots him a look. "First Middle Ages, now tyrant, are you learning English from Game of Thrones?" 

Rozanov shrugs. "Robb Stark is sexy."

Yeah, Scott can't really argue with that logic. He turns to the computer as the login window lights up. "Shit. Do you know Hollander's password?"

"2481."

You've got to be fucking kidding. Roz has to be trolling him. Except . . . the password actually works. This is insane.

"I can't believe you and Hollander are basically married."

"Shut up. Is not like that. Is just sex."

Scott gives him a look that says I don't buy any of your bullshit. "Dude. You're wearing his clothes and sleeping in his bed while he nurses you back to health. In no fucking world is this a casual hook-up." 

"You don't know what you're talking about."

He laughs. He can't stop himself. Rozanov is either living in denial or he's really that stupid. "You let him boss you around and he's not even here. You have a Russian pet name for him. It's the Olympic finals and he's more worried about you than winning. You're really gonna pretend this is nothing more than sex?"

"It can't be." There's a raw, wet anger in Rozanov's voice.

Scott mentally kicks himself. He's got no leg to stand on here. Kip basically lives with him now and they still haven't told anyone. Sure, they've said I love you, but that was the easy part. Scott felt like he would burst if he didn't say it. For the rest of it, well, Kip's been patient with him - more patient than he deserves. He loves Kip, and he still keeps him secret. 

It hits him, suddenly, seeing it from the outside. How fucking sad it is. 

Scott cues up the game. "Let's watch your boy kick Sweden's ass," he says, suddenly too heartsick to say anything else. 

*

Hollander scores a goal and an assist by the first intermission. Canada is up 2-1 but it's a fight every time the puck drops. No one wants to go home with silver.

"Sweden has good defense," Rozanov comments, "But Shane is better."

"He's playing a strong game," Scott agrees. 

They listen to the commentators until Roz loses the battle with his inner chirp monster. "What is Johnson saying? He is not even real hockey player. Played one season of MLH and he says 'the ice looks slippery'. Of course is slippery - is ice!"

Scott laughs. Johnson is a total airhead, if a handsome one. "Kip says the network keeps him to maintain the housewife viewership."

"Not true. Any housewife knows more about hockey than this."

"Cheers to that." Scott takes a swig of coca cola, setting it next to the remains of the burgers and fries he'd had delivered. From the bed above him, he sees Rozanov do the same. The stream cuts to a commercial.

"So this Kip, he is your boyfriend?"

Scott cringes. He didn't mean to share Kip's name with Rozanov of all people. Still, no point in lying now. "Yeah, he's my boyfriend." There's an uncomfortable level of relief in saying it aloud.

"He is good to you?"

Scott thinks of all the things Kip does for him. The smoothies and the dinners and the pressed shirts. The soft kisses, the secret smiles, the just thinking of you texts. His heart aches with missing him. Thank God Scott flies home tomorrow. 

"Yeah, he's really good to me."

"And?"

Scott's shoulders rise without meaning to. "And what?" What the fuck is Rozanov getting at? 

"Gah, you are so difficult. Just tell me about your hot boyfriend, Hunter. Will cheer me up."

Oh. He hadn't considered that Rozanov was being genuine. Asking about his boyfriend. Like a normal human being. 

"He's great," Scott says earnestly. Then he sort of trips over his own tongue. It's the first time he's gotten to talk about Kip to literally anyone. "He's the smartest person I know. He's starting his master's in Art History soon. And he's smart with people, too. He knows the right way to talk to pretty much anyone."

It's like a dam bursting. Scott couldn't stop talking if he tried. And Roz just . . . lets him. He chimes in with little chirps and snarky Russian noises, but Hollander is right - he's all bark and no bite. Scott talks until the puck drops for the second period, and then there isn't time to second guess how much he's said, because the game snaps into action. 

*

Rozanov sweet-talks his way into watching (rather than listening to) the final period. He watches the screen, hungry for a glimpse of Hollander. 

It's not a tight game anymore. Canada leads 4-1. The buzzer sounds. Canada wins. Scott clinks his empty coke glass against Rozanov's. Rozanov thumps him on the back in victory. 

The camera pans over the ice. Team Canada clambers onto one another, hooting and hollering their win. There's a close-up on Shane's face as he takes off the helmet. The look of triumph in his eyes. 

Rozanov is smiling again. 

"He did it," Scott says. 

"He did it." There's unmistakable pride in his voice. Then, "Fuck," Roz squeezes his eyes shut. Clutches the mattress to steady himself. 

"Damn. Too much screentime." Scott mutes the broadcast and closes the laptop to try and help. He puts on the bedside lamp and shuts off the overhead light to give Rozanov's head some relief.

"Gonna-"

Scott gets the trashcan under him just in time. Luckily he's never been grossed out by bodily fluids. In fact, Scott used to say he'd be a doctor if he wasn't playing hockey. He'd never get into medical school, but he likes the thought of it. 

"You got it all out?"

Rozanov nods miserably.

"Think that means it's time to get you ready for bed."

It's a testament to how bad he feels that Rozanov doesn't even protest. Scott half-carries him to the bathroom to brush his teeth. After a few minutes struggling to get a hoodie on the guy, Rozanov basically collapses into bed. Scott fights the ridiculous urge to tuck him in.

He does send Shane a text, congratulating him on the win and assuring him that he and Rozanov are fine for as long as Shane needs to be out. 

He accompanies the text with a photo of Ilya Rozanov, fast asleep in a #24 Montreal Metros sweatshirt. 

*

It starts with twitching. The rustling of the sheets. Scott's half-dozing himself and thinks maybe Rozanov is itchy again. 

"Roz?"

A murmured string of Russian. Then a sharp, gasping breath.

Scott sits bolt upright on the yoga mat. The lights are off but the moon is full so he can make out the outline of Rozanov tossing and turning in bed. 

There's another indistinct noise. Then, quietly, "No, no." 

His stomach drops. 

Scott had nightmares himself after his parents died. He didn't always remember what they were about, he just knew he'd wake up shivering or panting or having wet the bed. He remembers the humiliation of it. The unwillingness to tell anyone. At fifteen years old he figured he was a man, and men didn't need comfort. 

Rozanov gives a violent jerk. 

"Roz, you need to wake up." Scott thinks he might hurt himself if he doesn't. Turning on the lamp, he illuminates Rozanov's tense, sweaty form. He's curled in on himself. Protecting his ribs. 

And he's still not waking.

Scott frantically thinks about what to do. Touching seems like a bad idea. So does shouting. The light is already on. 

Scott knocks the empty coke bottles over. There's the clatter of glass and the roll of the bottles. 

Rozanov goes stock still on the bed. His gaze locks on Scott like a rabbit sensing a predator. His chest heaves. His breath catches and turns into a wheeze. 

"You're all right," Scott says, unmoving from his spot on the ground. He thinks anything he does beyond talking will be read as a threat. "You're good, Roz. It's just you and me."

The kid stares at him, open-mouthed and trembling. His eyes have gone dark and glassy with fear. 

"I'm not gonna hurt you. I'm just waiting with you until Shane comes back."

The mention of Shane seems to ground him a bit. 

"Shane," he gasps between breaths, "was right. Am having heart attack."

"It's not a heart attack. Just give it a minute."

"Can't-"

"You can. Sit up, it'll be easier."

It takes a scary long time, but Rozanov pushes himself upright. 

"You're good, Roz," Scott says again. There's a little voice inside him flipping the fuck out but he puts it in a jar and squeezes the lid shut. He can unpack this later, with Kip. If he freaks out now he'll just make this worse for the both of them. 

Rozanov starts to breathe a little easier.

"That's right," Scott says, like he's talking to a rookie on his first day of practice. Slowly, Rozanov remembers how to breathe. 

Scott passes him a water bottle. He takes several long gulps. Then fusses with the hoodie until it comes off, revealing his sweat-soaked torso. Roz tosses it in the corner. Tosses the empty water bottle after it. 

Then the absolute shithead goes, "You want to play cards? Will kill the time until Shane comes back." 

Rozanov looks like he might keel over at any second. Scott doubts he can count to ten in this state. But Scott also knows, from personal experience, that he won't be able to sleep again right away. He wonders if he should push Rozanov to talk about it. 

There's a voice that sounds an awful lot like Kip saying, "You can't be his therapist, you can just be there for him." Regrettably, Kip is usually right.

"What, you don't like cards?" Rozanov says, "You are old man. You must love cards." There's something pleading in his tone. He's asking Scott to let it slide, let it go - let him keep his dignity. 

Scott relents. "Yeah, kid. We can play cards."

The look Rozanov gives him is so damn grateful. 

Fuck.

He's going to have two rookies now, isn't he?

Life is really fucking unfair. 

Chapter Text

Scott will never say it, but he really is too old to be lying on a yoga mat for this long. He and Roz made it through half a card game before giving up and putting on one of Scott's true crime audiobooks. He doubts Roz cares one way or the other what they're listening to. The guy clearly just doesn't want to go back to sleep.

There's a knock, then a slightly slurred, "It's me, Shane," from the other side of the door. He sounds drunk.

Scott mutes the audiobook and heaves himself off the floor. Roz stirs behind him. 

Hollander stumbles into the room. His hair's a mess, eyes glassy and cheeks flushed. An Olympic medal shines from around his neck. He hiccups. Definitely drunk.

His gaze goes right to Rozanov. Then to Scott. Hollander breaks out into a rare, unselfconscious smile. "You didn't kill each other!"

Scott laughs despite himself. "I guess miracles do happen."

"So everything's okay?"

"Yeah, Rook, everything's okay." Scott expects to have to give a full status report on Rozanov's health. He debates what to say about the nightmare. It's not really his place but he feels like someone close to Rozanov should know. He isn't given the chance to bring it up, though. Where sober Shane would ask for a full medical report, drunk Shane has other priorities.

"Ilyaaaaaaa!" he exclaims, teetering across the room. "We won!"

Rozanov has pulled himself to his feet. Which is a relief because Hollander basically throws himself at the Russian menace. "I saw," Rozanov murmurs, "Am so proud of you, moy lyubov." Rozanov pulls Hollander in a full-body embrace. 

The scene both grosses Scott out and makes him want to cry from missing Kip. It's officially time to go.

"Congrats on the win, Rook," he says, hand on the doorknob.

"Wait, Scott." Hollander wriggles out of Rozanov's hold. "Before you go I wanted to say thank you. You have no idea how much this means. I never thought anyone . . . I never thought we'd be able to trust anyone with this." His eyes well up with unshed tears. 

Despite himself, emotion threatens to choke Scott up as well. He'd known logically that he couldn't be the only queer person in the league. It's different to know he's not. Two people now know about Scott, and about Kip - and the world didn't end. If he does get outed, and it all goes to shit, he thinks he'll have Hollander and Rozanov to back him up. He feels more certain of himself than he has in years - and all it cost was five years' off his life from the trauma of babysitting Ilya fucking Rozanov.

All things considered, Scott thinks it could have been a lot worse.

"Listen, if you guys need anything else, you've got my number," Scott finds himself saying.

He thought this night couldn't get any stranger. Then Shane Hollander hugs him. It's a quick thing. Strong and tight and then gone. He gets his arms around the kid long enough for a solid pat on the back before Hollander makes a speedy retreat.

"Thank you," Hollander says again, avoiding Scott's eyes. 

Scott looks at Rozanov for assistance but the asshole just winks at him. 

"Anytime, Rook, I mean it. Now get some rest." With that, Scott makes his escape. 

As the door shuts, he hears Rozanov say something indistinguishable. 

Then Hollander responding, "Okay, baby."

Fuckbuddies. Sure. 

Scott dials Kip before he's even started walking. 

*

"What time is your flight?" Shane asks as he sorts through the various first aid supplies. His head isn't thanking him for the vodka from last night but, he wants to make sure Ilya has easy access to the most important items during his travel. 

Ilya hesitates. "Late. What time is yours?" 

"8:20pm. Is yours before or after?"

"Uhh, after." Ilya clearly has no idea.

"Here, give me your phone and I'll look it up for you." 

"No, is fine."

That gets Shane's attention. "Why are you being weird about this?"

Rozanov looks guilty. Like a dog that ate something it wasn't supposed to. 

"Ilya."

"Okay, okay." Ilya tenses up his shoulders and then forces them back down. "Flight is not today. I cannot go to the airport looking like this." He gestures to his bruised and still swollen face.

Shane feels the room tilt. There's a tug on his wrist as Ilya pulls him to his side on the bed.

"Hollander, listen, will be fine. I have a plan."

Plan - a plan is good. He's slightly nauseous as he asks, "What's the plan?" 

"I stay in a hotel here for another three days and then I take same flight home as Svetlana on Tuesday. So she can help me with the bags and the screens and the airport. Is a good plan, okay?"

Shane chews his lip. He feels foolish for not thinking about the press optics earlier. Especially today, the airport will be crawling with reporters. And he's been fretting about the idea of Ilya suffering through multiple plane rides in his current state. But-

"Why didn't you just tell me?"

"Did not seem important. You are leaving today. Will not affect you."

Shane fights the urge to rub his temples. He doesn't think Ilya is being infuriating on purpose. "I don't like the idea of you here alone for three more days."

Ilya starts to rub circles on Shane's back. "I will be careful. Will not leave hotel, or look at screens, or smoke too many cigarettes. I will behave, okay?"

Shane runs his gaze over Ilya. He's a collection of contrasts. Soft curls and sharp jawline. Bright eyes and dark bruises. Shane doesn't want to leave him like this. 

"You said you would let me take care of you."

"Yes, and you did."

"If you aren't healthy enough to get on a plane then you aren't healthy enough to be left on your own."

"I have fractured ribs and a concussion. Is not life threatening. If it was more serious I would already be in hospital. I will be dizzy and have headache but I will not be in any danger."

"You'll still be alone. And in pain."

Ilya's smile is grim. "Is just pain."

Shane ignores this. He unlocks his phone and pulls up his calendar. Does a quick search for flights. "I don't have to be back in Montreal for practice until Thursday. I can change my flight to Tuesday morning." That still gives him time to adjust to the jet lag and be in top form for his first practice back in Montreal. It's a much better plan than Ilya's. 

"Hollander, you can't."

"Watch me." 

Ilya’s mouth gapes open in surprise.

Shane capitalizes on this moment of weakness. "Done. Changed my flight. And before you ask, it's non-refundable."

Ilya's Adam's apple bobs. "Shane-"

Shane cuts him off. "You should know by now that I'm not the type of guy to quit what I've started." 

The look Ilya gives him is half awe, half apprehension. "And people say I am the scary one." 

*

Babe: I've been looking at their Wikipedia pages all day and I sort of understand why you're freaking out

Scott: it feels so good to be right

Babe: calm your tits

Babe: I'm just saying the rivalry is intense

Scott: it's even crazier in person 

Babe: when exactly did they get together?

Scott: not sure. they said something that implied Rookie year tho

Babe: what do you mean you're not sure

Scott: I didn't ask?

Babe: honey. when I tell you to bring me the tea that means timelines 

Babe: god dammit Scott

Babe: we need to get them over to the apartment so I can grill them myself 

Scott: you really, really don't want them in our home

Babe: I really think I do 

Scott: >:(

*

Sneaking Ilya into Shane's hotel room is remarkably easy. Soon enough they're sprawled on the massive penthouse couch, luxuriating in all the space.

It's a little awkward. They spent so long in the cramped dorm room that it started to feel natural to be pressed up against each other at all times. Shane already feels weird about essentially forcing his way into Ilya's plans to stay in Sochi. Now they have space and they're on opposite ends of the couch and Shane doesn't know how the rules have changed. He knows it's only a few extra feet but Ilya feels very far away. 

"I have new life aspiration," Ilya says. "I will be Slavic trophy wife. Live off rich man and only stay in hotels like this."

Shane can admit that he may have gone slightly overboard with the hotel. Opulent is pretty much the only word to describe it. But he's not about to let Ilya give him shit for it.

"You're acting like you aren't also rich.” 

"Ah, but is different when someone else pays. I am, how you say, sugar baby."

There's a knowing look in Ilya's eyes on the word baby. Shane's cheeks heat. He remembers saying that particular word a few times last night - and internally curses the rest of Team Canada for plying him with celebratory vodka shots.

"You would have to actually be sweet to be a sugar baby," Shane counters.

Ilya, the absolute shit, takes this as a challenge. "I can be sweet." 

Before he knows it, Ilya is crowding onto Shane's part of the couch. Neutral zone breached. He tries not to be so relieved. 

Ilya props his head on Shane's hip. His hand tucks itself into Shane's inner thigh. 

"Do you want me to be sweet for you?"

Shane's blood rushes south. "You're still healing."

"So you do not want me to touch your dick?" Eyebrows raised. Gauntlet thrown. 

Shane hates being the reasonable one in moments like these. "I think you'll hurt yourself if you start something."

"I think my hand is not injured and there is industrial supply of Vaseline in your backpack. Or," Ilya grabs Shane’s chin with his free hand, thumb pulling at his bottom lip, "You can give me your spit." 

Shane swipes his tongue over the pad of Ilya's thumb. He gives it a little nip. "Hmm. Vaseline or spit. Doesn't sound very sweet to me. Not exactly up to sugar baby standards."

The hand on his leg slides higher. Squeezes. 

"Okay, I admit I am sour baby. I can touch you now?" 

Shane would laugh if he wasn’t so turned on. "Yes."

There's not much talking after that. 

*

Ilya helps him figure out Yandex for the grocery delivery. The penthouse has a kitchen and, after almost two weeks of cafeteria food and take-out, Shane can't wait to make a real meal. Ilya naps while Shane makes lunch. They eat in easy silence then put on a movie (with strict instructions for Ilya not to look at the screen). Shane drifts off about halfway through. The physical and mental stress of the last few weeks is finally catching up to him. 

"You do not have to stay in hotel with me the whole time," Ilya says later - interrupting their debate on which dumb action movie to watch next. He's smushed halfway on top of Shane. This is a very motivating factor for staying on the couch.  

"I know. I'll probably go for a run later."

"You should see more of the city. I hear it is very nice. Good for tourists."

Shane shrugs. He's never been much of a tourist. Very few things beyond hockey capture his attention.

"I will if I feel like it. Coach gave me the next couple of days off to rest so that's my priority right now." He frames it as something he needs to do for hockey, hoping Ilya will be less likely to fight him on it. 

"I see," says Ilya, that mischievous glint back in his eyes. "And did your coach give you a proper resting regimen?"

"Yeah, he said to stay far away from Ilya Rozanov. Apparently that guy kicks in his sleep." Shane pushes on Ilya's shoulders like he's trying to dislodge him. 

"No, I think he said opposite. Must stay as close to Rozanov as possible so you can absorb his greatness."

"Fuck off Rozanov."

“Make me.”

*

They cook dinner together. It's a simple stew that Ilya apparently ate a lot as a child and that fits Shane's in-season diet. Shane makes Ilya go ice his face and ribs instead of helping with the dishes. They're both yawning uncontrollably by 9pm and decide to stop pretending otherwise.

"You want a shower?" Shane asks. 

Ilya makes a low sound in his throat. "Hmm, yes. If we go together."

Ilya is much steadier on his feet today but Shane still has him sit on the shower bench while he scrubs him down. He holds Ilya to him when they stand under the spray, washing the shampoo from his curls. Everything feels warm and drowsy and he revels in the feeling of Ilya's water-slick skin.

They bring each other off slowly, open-mouthed kissing in a way that feels like breathing one another in. 

It's been a good day. The first easy day in a long time. Applying Vaseline to Ilya's back, Shane is reminded of those awful belt marks, and he can't help thinking they're living on borrowed time.

He waits until they're curled in bed to broach the subject. Something about having the lights off makes it easier to ask. 

"Ilya, have your dad and brother done this to you before?"

Ilya's body goes taut. "Don't."

"I know they're your family and I can't ever understand what it's like but I need you to know this isn't normal."

"Is normal here. This is what I try to tell you."

White hot anger burns through Shane. He hates that someone made Ilya think this is normal. And even if it was normal here, that doesn't mean Ilya has to keep subjecting himself to it.

Shane steels himself for Ilya’s impending reaction and asks, "Are you going to keep coming back here?"

"Hollander, is hard enough to still be in Russia. Knowing they are also here. I am thinking always about bad things that will not happen. Thinking they will find me or find you. Please do not make me talk about it." 

"I know it's hard. It's just . . . it might help." The pain in Ilya is buried so deeply that Shane doesn’t know how to begin excavating it. He doesn’t know how to protect Ilya from a pain that he can’t see, or touch, or begin to understand. 

"No." It comes out sharp-edged. Ilya pauses, seems to settle himself. "Not here. I cannot talk about it here. Russia is already too heavy for me."

He thinks of Ilya in that bathtub. Ilya vomiting. Ilya crying. Ilya lying still and quiet in a way that’s wrong wrong wrong. Maybe Ilya is right and it isn’t fair to push him more. Even the way he carries himself is different here. Russia holds too many memories. It weighs him down.

Shane will do his best to lighten the load. 

"Okay,” he agrees, “no more serious talk. We'll just rest here."

Ilya kisses Shane's temple and, even though it stays unspoken, he hears Ilya's thank you clear as anything. 

*

The next two days are much of the same. They cook together. They watch/listen to movies. Ilya flirts like his life depends on it. Shane makes him ice his ribs. 

They trade hot, languid kisses on the couch. Shane spends a long while torturing Ilya with his mouth. He ignores the flash of ice cold fear when Ilya gasps out, “Shane” as he comes. Ignores the panic until he can sneak out for a run, and then runs hard enough that his lungs hurt and he’s too tired to think about the terrifying intimacy of it all.

They sleep early every night, their bodies starved for rest. It's a king-sized bed. They still manage to fall asleep tangled up in each other. 

Shane wakes the morning of his flight feeling like a dead man walking. They make eggs and eat them at a respectable distance. Ilya doesn't follow Shane to the bedroom to pack. Shane checks Ilya’s medicine bag four times. He pretends not to notice that one of his hoodies has mysteriously migrated into Ilya’s suitcase. He fights the urge to check Ilya's bag again. 

Shane brings his luggage into the foyer. Ilya’s there already - he’s been on the phone with Svetlana arranging his own departure. Ilya takes in the suitcases and says, “Will be better to have the front desk call your cab. In case the driver recognizes my voice.” He says something to Svetlana in Russian before hanging up. Shoves his hands in his pockets and stands there. Waiting for Shane to leave.

Aside from the fading bruises, Ilya looks the way he always has - steady, impassive. It's the way he looked, before. 

“I’d better get going then.” 

Ilya nods. “Okay, safe travels.” His voice is polite but flat. 

Shane wants to say something - he just doesn't know what. Doesn't have the words. He wants to kiss him goodbye. It’s a bad idea - one that he’s working up the courage to do anyway. That is, until Ilya shifts - almost imperceptibly - back. Away.

So he just says, “Bye Ilya.”

And Ilya says, “Bye Shane.”

And that’s that. 

*

Shane: Did you make it home okay?

Lily: Yes

Shane: What did the doctor say?

Lily: Will go tomorrow

Shane: Ok, keep me updated.

*

Shane: Any news from the doctor?

Lily: Healing looks normal. IR for 2 weeks.

Shane: Why only 2 weeks?

Lily: They need me for the cup run

Shane: Too bad the cup is ours this year

Shane: Is Svetlana checking up on you? 

Read: 11:17

Chapter Text

It’s not ghosting; it’s just distance. Ilya responds to his texts sporadically. He waits a day or two to reply. Doesn’t instigate. Doesn't flirt. 

Shane tells himself this is what’s to be expected. Russia was an anomaly and now they’re back to living real life. If he checks his notifications incessantly, well that's between him and his phone. 

He doesn't realize how bad it's gotten until Hayden of all people comments on it. Hayden - sweet, oblivious and perpetually overwhelmed by his children Hayden, who despite all that has apparently noticed that Shane is stressed about Lily.

"I hate to break it to you but checking your phone won't make her text back faster," Hayden quips. As usual, they're the last two in the locker room. Belatedly, Shane realizes that he's been staring at his phone while Hayden waits for him to finish up.

Shane's brain blanks on a response so he just turns the phone over and finishes pulling on his street clothes. His muscles protest as he stands. Maybe he's been working them all a little harder than necessary since he returned from Sochi. 

Hayden tries a softer approach. "You know you can tell me about it, right?"

He shrugs. "Nothing to tell."

Shane is a really shitty liar. 

Thankfully, Hayden is used to Shane's reclusive habits by now and changes tactics. Since he won't talk about Lily, Hayden settles for strong-arming him into having dinner at the Pike house. Shane takes one more despondent glance at his phone (no new messages) and agrees.

He can be normal about this. Just watch. He can be so fucking normal.

*

Three weeks after winning an Olympic gold medal, Shane boards a flight to Boston. Normally, he looks forward to these match-ups with a child-like anticipation. He never plays better than when he plays against Rozanov. 

Except he feels buzzy and distant from himself the whole flight. He hides in his solo room at the hotel but even an hour of guided meditation isn't helping. Shane remembers lying in bed with Ilya and agreeing to call the next time he felt a shutdown creeping on. But Shane is pretty sure that Ilya is the reason he's shutting down and, anyway, they haven't spoken in three weeks. Shane isn't about to call for the first time ever about this.

He gives into the compulsion and spends an unknown amount of time taking the hotel phone off the receiver, pacing away, then returning to put it back in place. There's no reason for it. Not one that he can explain. He just knows something bad will happen if he stops. 

Shane mostly has ahold of himself by gametime. He decides he won't react to anything from Rozanov on the ice. This is about hockey. They can deal with everything else afterwards.

Gliding to the center zone, an artificial calm descends on him. If there are two things in life that Shane Hollander excels at, it's hockey and compartmentalization. 

Rozanov skids to a stop in front of him. The facial bruising has faded. Like it never even happened.

"I hear you won a gold medal," Rozanov smirks. "Is good. You will have something to comfort yourself with when I win the cup."

"In your dreams," Shane fires back. Which, granted, isn't the greatest comeback of all time.

The puck drops. Shane wins the face-off.

Rozanov doesn't get as much ice time as usual. He might be technically cleared by his doctor but his ribs are far from healed. It's nothing obvious but neither of them are playing their best. Bitterly, Shane thinks that at least Rozanov has an excuse for it. 

By the time the buzzer sounds on a disappointing 3-2 loss for Montreal, Shane is furious. He can't believe the way he played tonight. He can't justify it with anything rational. He's so angry at himself for letting Rozanov affect him. He's livid with Rozanov for acting so fucking normal.

Then he's back to being angry at himself for wanting something other than normal. Really, what did Shane expect? If Rozanov flirted with him after weeks of lukewarm texting he'd be mad about that, too. It's all infuriating. It's all impossible.

In a very uncharacteristic move, Shane tosses his helmet on the locker room floor. J.J. says something about beating Boston the next time - but the fact is there won't necessarily be a next time. This is their last regular match-up for the season and, at the rate Montreal is playing, they won't meet in the playoffs. Shane scolds himself for setting a bad example and goes to take a shower.

He spends longer under the water than necessary. Wondering if Rozanov is going to text him. Afraid that he will. Afraid that he won't. 

When Shane finally looks at his phone again he has a new notification.

Lily: Room #

Shane: 1129

*

Rozanov steps inside and a sense of deja vu hits Shane in the face. It's like he's transported back to those last moments in the penthouse suite in Russia. Hovering once more in an entryway. The impulse to say something is the same, too. Except Shane still hasn't found the words.

He meets Rozanov's stare. Clocks the raw hunger in it. It sends a pulse of satisfaction through Shane. After weeks of bland, boring, nothing, here is incontrovertible proof that he makes Ilya feel something. Even if it's only lust.  

They crash into each other. 

Shane melts into the kiss. Some animal instinct in him quiets at the familiarity of this. Their bodies are in tune even when their words aren't. After so much pent up anxiety and frustration Shane is grateful to let Ilya take over.

"Did you miss my dick?" Ilya says, a hand at Shane's throat. "Because I know I missed your mouth."

Logically, he knows they should talk about this. But, for the first time all day he doesn't feel on the verge of a total meltdown. He feels real and present and like he fits in his own skin again. He doesn't want to give that feeling up.

"I can show you how much I missed it," Shane says, and lets Rozanov push him to his knees.

*

Two orgasms later, Shane thinks he might be ready for a conversation. They're lying side-by-side in bed in that post-sex afterglow. 

"You missed that shot in the third," Ilya says, "Could have tied us."

"Fuck off," Shane groans.

"No, am just saying you did not play like Olympic champion tonight."

It's teasing but it still stings a little. "I scored both goals for Montreal," Shane protests.

"Yes, two goals. This is why I give you two orgasms. Next time you will get hat trick if you want three." 

A confusing mix of indignation and excitement jumps around in Shane's brain. He latches onto two words, "Next time?"

Ilya runs a possessive hand up Shane's side. "Yes. Even if Montreal is terrible and does not make playoffs, we will both be at MLH awards. Like always, yes?"

If Shane didn't know him so well he wouldn't be able to read the nervousness in Ilya's eyes. As it stands, he sees through the question to what Ilya is really getting at. What happened in Russia was a huge fucking deviation from the norm. It's been weird but Ilya is offering to get things back on track. Back on schedule. 

"Right, of course," Shane agrees. Because it feels like the alternative is agreeing not to meet.

Ilya smiles at him. "Good. And you can score hat trick for special reward." He sends a salacious wink before rolling over and out of bed.

Shane feels like he's been dropped in the deep end. Just like that? 

"You can stay longer if you want," he offers.

"Is okay, team bus leaves early tomorrow. We have game in Buffalo." Ilya finishes dressing.

On the one hand, the awkward tension from before has finally dissipated. On the other, Shane might be dying. 

Ilya gives Shane a brief peck on the lips. Tosses, "Okay. See you then, Hollander," over his shoulder, and makes his way out.

Like it doesn't fucking kill him. 

*

Somehow, Shane makes it through the next month without suffering a psychotic break. It helps that these are the last few weeks of the regular season and Montreal is fighting tooth and nail to claim the wildcard spot in the playoffs. He locks in. He becomes a hockey machine. 

It's not enough. The Montreal Metro's season ends on an anticlimactic 4-2 loss against San Francisco. It's a Sunday matinee game. Which means the sun is shining when Shane drags himself to the emptied-out stadium parking lot and loses his motherfucking mind.

It hits him like a sledgehammer. He won't see Ilya again until June. And then it wallops him: He misses Ilya. Misses him so much it actually knocks the wind out of him.

Shane doesn't remember crouching down in the middle of the parking lot. The sun glints overhead with a brightness that's painful. And finally, the truth he's been shoving down since that night in Boston - since Sochi, maybe since before then - becomes undeniable. 

He wants Ilya Rozanov. He wants to be with Ilya Rozanov. Going back to the way things were is simply no longer an option. If he has to keep pretending to be normal and meeting up to fuck every few months he will actually explode. 

He's a balloon popping with the tension of holding himself together. Every self-imposed restraint that piled on and piled up - the texts he didn't send, the words he didn't say, the times he didn't call - it snaps something inside of Shane. He wants more. He wants Ilya. 

And that's fucking terrifying. 

Because it's one thing to admit to himself how much he cares about his rival. It's another thing entirely for Shane to picture what being together would actually mean. Clandestine hook-ups are much less scary than a relationship. It's easy not to put a label on something that only happens in the dark. Shane thinks about calling Ilya his boyfriend and simultaneously wants to laugh and throw up.

He's not ready to be gay.

He's not ready to give Ilya up, either. 

Shane falls on his butt on the asphalt. Drops his duffle bag with a thud. He's unlocking his phone and thumbing through his contacts before he has time to second guess himself.

The phone rings.

*

Scott has his legs draped over Kip's lap when the call comes. He considers ignoring it. The Admirals have a decent shot at the cup and that means time with Kip will be few and far between in the coming weeks. Selfishly, he wants to ignore the world and take this lazy Sunday with his boyfriend for himself.

Then Scott sees the caller ID. 

He jerks to answer the phone. It startles Kip from his reading and earns Scott a bewildered look. Scott grimaces but puts the phone to his face.

"Hollander, what's up?"

"Scott. Is now a bad time?" Even with Hollander's generally flat affect his voice gives him away. Something is wrong. 

Scott sits up fully. "Not at all." He gives Hollander a second to pull his thoughts together. Still, he's blindsided by what comes out of the guy's mouth.

"How did you know you were gay?"

Scott laughs. "Fuck, Rook. You don't pull punches, huh?" 

He can practically hear Hollander vibrating on the other end of the line.

Scott thinks of something to say that isn't By age 13 it was pretty clear that I could only jerk off to boy band posters while everyone else was obsessed with Brittany Spears. "Look," he says, "I don't think there's a set method that everyone uses to decide their sexuality. For me it was a lot of things. My first crush was a guy. The celebrities I liked were guys. But mostly I just know there's a feeling I have with men that I don't have with women."

"Okay," Shane says. He doesn't sound like it's fucking okay.

"Rook, why are you asking?"

Shane takes a shuddering breath. "Because I think I might be gay. Like, fully gay."

"Yeah? That's a big thing to realize." Scott shoots Kip a frantic look and gets a thumbs up in reassurance. He's never had anyone fucking come out to him before. "I'm also 100% gay," he adds, "So, you know, welcome to the club."

A wet laugh. "This club sucks."

"Yeah, Rook." Then Scott looks at Kip again. His super hot and wonderful and brilliant boyfriend. "Hey, I need you to know that it doesn't always suck. I'm living my gay life, got a boyfriend now, and I'm happier than I've been in a long time."  

The truth is, finding out about Hollander and Rozanov in Sochi gave Scott the courage to be braver about what he wants. Just a couple of weeks after the Olympics, Scott made the decision to go to Kip's birthday party. As miniscule as that sounds it was a huge deal to him. Even just going as a friend was so freeing, and he could tell it meant a lot to Kip. A few days after that they decided to tell Kip's dad. And while Scott has absolutely no plans to publicly come out in the near future, he feels like he's been given his life back. He's become a real person again - not a shadow. 

Kip is smiling at him as Scott adds, "It's hard but it's worth it."

"I just -" Hollander chokes on his words. "I don't want to do this to myself unless I'm really fucking sure. Like - you get it. Of all people you get it. It could ruin my entire life. Make everything harder. Even if I never get outed I'll still have to live half my life in secret and I'm just wondering - What if I could have made it work with a girl? Is it crazy to think I should try one last time? To be sure?"

That is an insane fucking idea. Scott wants it noted on the record that that is an insane and terrible fucking idea. He just won't say that to Shane right now. 

"Shane, buddy, I don't think forcing yourself to try dating women is the solution here."

Kip's eyes go round as saucers. 

"But -"

"And I'm pretty sure that, even if you could be happy with a woman, that still wouldn't solve your problem. Because she wouldn't be him." 

Silence.

Maybe that was too honest.

Then Shane says, "I want to be with him. Am I crazy for thinking that could happen?"

Oh Jesus Christ. Scott is hardly equipped for heartfelt coming out speeches. He sure as hell isn't prepared to talk about Hollander and Rozanov's multi-year love affair.

"It would be fucking crazy if it ever got out," Scott says, because he needs to. There's no denying - his situation and Hollander's are not the same. "But it would also be crazy to have what you guys have and choose to walk away from it."

"It's so complicated. Russia. His family. The rivalry. I don't even know if he wants me as more than a hook-up."

Scott wants to backtrack to whatever point in life he apparently signed up to hear gay hockey confessions and un-fucking-subscribe.

"He does, Rook. Trust me." 

"Okay. Okay." Shane sounds like he's preparing himself for war. "I can't talk to him during the playoffs. That wouldn't be fair. But after. Yeah. Maybe."

Scott is okay leaving this at a maybe. He thinks it's something Shane ultimately needs to decide for himself. And he will die before talking anyone into dating Ilya fucking Rozanov. 

"You gonna be okay?"

"Yeah," Hollander says, and Scott actually (mostly) believes him. 

"Good. I'm glad you told me. It's nice to know there are two of us full gays out there."

Shane chuckles. That's a win in Scott's book. 

"Thanks, Hunter. And good luck in the playoffs."

"Thanks, Rook." Scott's about to end the call when Kip kicks him in the shin. God dammit. "Oh! Almost forgot. Next time you're in New York the two of you should stop by. Kip wants to meet you."

*

Ilya has rules for himself now. This is a very Shane Hollander thing to do and it is also very annoying. It's ironic, too, because the rules are to protect him from the least threatening man in all of hockey.

The rules are not exactly specific. They are not written down. It's more like Ilya is walking along a cliff's edge and he must pull himself back when he comes too close to tumbling over. He does not kiss Shane goodbye in Sochi. He does not stay the night in Boston. He does not text that he misses him. 

The rules are important because they mean he can keep Shane in his life. Ilya will take these stolen moments and cherish them, and that will be enough. Ilya misses Shane when they aren't together but he is used to missing people. That is life.

And besides, Ilya knows what happens when he gets too greedy.

So he is good. For months after Sochi he follows the rules. He enjoys what scraps he gets and knows it's more than he deserves. 

Maybe it's the high of adrenaline from winning the cup. Maybe it's the thought of his mama smiling down on him. Ilya has that unstoppable, invincible feeling. It's rushing through his veins like he's driving his Ducati at 150mph. It's a feeling that eats away all his restraint. 

Shane's text is the first one he reads in the locker room. 

Jane: Congrats! You earned it.

Jane: I'm really fucking proud of you.

Ilya: Thank you

Ilya: I am proud of me too

Ilya: I am excited to see you next week

Ilya: I miss you

Jane: I miss you too

*

Ilya watches Shane accept the Best Sportsmanship Award. He will be sure to tease him about his Canadian Good Boy persona later. Ilya isn't even jealous. First, because no one would ever nominate Ilya Rozanov for that particular award. Second, because he likes watching Shane smile. It makes his freckles crinkle in a way that is very cute. 

Shane glows under the stage lights. There's something different about him tonight. Lighter. Ilya wonders if it's the relief of the post-season. For as much as Shane loves hockey the sport can be very unforgiving. He looks good. Better than good in his well-tailored suit. Ilya bets he hired a designer for that. Maybe the same one who decorated his condo. Shane is effervescent. 

It's so hard to look away. 

After the ceremony, Ilya downs a glass of vodka at the bar. He sees Scott Hunter watching him from across the room and decides he's put in enough of an appearance. He isn't going to wait around for Hunter to come have a heart to heart with him. Sochi was difficult enough. If Ilya thinks about it too much he'll combust from embarrassment. In fact, Ilya's only objectives tonight are to get drunk, fuck Shane Hollander until he cries, and get one last night of real sleep before he leaves for Russia in the morning. 

He's alone in his hotel room for less than 10 minutes before Shane knocks. Ilya takes another shot of vodka before answering. To steady himself - and because he likes to make Hollander wait.

Hollander knows his tricks too well. Rather than nervous, the extra time in the hall has Shane entering with his arms crossed, muttering, "So winning the cup didn't make you less of an asshole, huh?"

Ilya sidles up to him. Undoes the buttons on Hollander's suit jacket. "It is Stanley Cup not Jesus. Cannot do miracles." 

Shane tilts his head back. Looks up at Ilya with eyes already gone soft in that intoxicating way of his. Ilya never had a thing for brown eyes until Shane. 

Shane's hands go to Ilya's collar and hold him there. "Congrats on the win by the way. I've been wanting to say that in person." 

Ilya slides his hand to the small of Shane's back. Tugs him closer still. "Was very good feeling to hold the cup. You should try it."

Shane gives him that smile - half fond and half exasperated. "I'll take it into consideration."

Ilya leans in to kiss him. The kiss is gentle. Soft. Ilya tries to deepen it but he's stopped by a hand on his cheek. 

"Wait. Before we get into . . . all that. There's something I wanted to ask you." Just the allusion to sex has Hollander blushing. 

"You want to bargain with me about the hat trick, is that it?" 

Shane's blush deepens. "No. I uh -" He clears his throat. "I was wondering if you'd come to my cottage this summer? It's on a lake. It's nice, and really private. So we wouldn't have to worry about other people and we could just . . . be together there."

Ilya goes cold. Shane cannot be doing this. He is deviating from the rules. Since when does Shane Hollander break the fucking rules?

"Hollander, you know we can't do that."

Shane brushes his thumb against Ilya's cheek with a gentleness that makes him want to scream. "I've been thinking about it a lot, actually. And I think maybe we can. There's the whole summer ahead of us. We can sneak you away from Boston for a week without anyone noticing."

"I will not be in Boston. I will be in Moscow."

Shane flinches. The hand falls away from Ilya's cheek. "You're going back to Russia?"

There's disbelief in Shane's voice. Enough of it to make Ilya angry. "Oh, I see. You think I lose the Olympics so now I can never go back to my country? I should live in shame in America forever?"

"What? No. That's not what I said." Shane steps back. He shakes out his hands the way he sometimes does before a face-off. "I can't understand why you'd want to go back there after what your family did to you."

"No," Ilya agrees, "You cannot understand." 

Russia is heavy, true - but so is Ilya. That is where he belongs. 

"Ilya, don't go to Russia," Shane says. Pleads. 

It makes Ilya want to punch a wall. As if it were that fucking easy to abandon his country. His family. His duty. Ilya's father is terrible but he is still his father. Lately he calls and he does not understand that Ilya lives in America. He asks for Irina. He is sick. It is Ilya's duty as a son to look after him. Alexei does not let him forget this - constantly reminding Ilya that he is not there, that his money only goes so far. That Ilya is a disappointment. The summer is the one time Ilya can prove himself to his family. Prove his worth.

Of course Ilya hates it there. Dreads going back every year. But that does not matter, because wants do not matter. Not for him. He hates Shane for suggesting that he could choose not to go back. For years and years and years Ilya has kept that thought bottled up so tight it could never get out and now it's fucking out. He doesn't want to go back. Doesn't want to think about how scared he is to go back.

He is more scared that, if he doesn't get on the plane tomorrow, he will never set foot in Russia again. The second he lets himself think there is a way out of the cage, he is fucked. He would be orphaned. He would be stranded. He is not ready to face the thought of never seeing his mother's grave again. 

"What do you want from me Hollander? You want me to give up my country and go play happy boyfriends at your cottage like some fucking fairy tale?" 

"Yes!" It explodes out of Shane. Hits Ilya like a bullet. "Yes, I want that. That's what I came here to say to you tonight. It's killing me to keep meeting up every couple of months and pretending it's all fine."

"It is fine." There's a cavern opening in Ilya and if he doesn't stop it right now he thinks it will swallow him whole. 

"It's not. I know you feel this too, Ilya. I don't want to just be fuckbuddies or whatever this is. I want more."

More. 

This is Ilya's least favorite word. More. Bolshe. This is all he ever hears. Bolshe, bolshe, bolshe, Ilya. More money. More time. More winning. More honor. Ilya himself should always be more. More strong. More talented. More respectful. More masculine. 

It will never be enough for any of them. 

Ilya is so, so stupid for thinking he could be enough for Shane. 

"You cannot have more!" He's shouting and he can't stop himself. "I don't have anything else to give!"

Shane's eyes go wide. "I'm not - I don't -"

He thought he could have this one good thing. This one fucking thing. And now it's ruined.

"Get out."

Shane goes pale. His expression stricken. 

The rabid, snarling animal is back in control. Ilya grabs Shane by the forearm and forces him to the door. "Out!"

He gets it halfway open before Shane has the presence of mind to fight back. He pushes against Ilya's grip.  

"Ilya - Ilya wait. Please listen. Even if you never talk to me again please, please don't go to Russia." He's panicking now. Crying. "I'm scared what might happen to you there. I don't want them to hurt you anymore."

"It does not matter what you want," Ilya snarls, and slams the door in Hollander's face. 

He waits long enough for Hollander to be out of earshot before grabbing the first thing in sight - a bottle of wine from the minibar - and hurtles it across the room. It shatters, and Ilya does too.

He crosses the room. Grabs the vodka and drinks straight from the bottle. He doesn't even feel the burn. It's all numb now in that scary, too-heavy way he gets. 

Ilya drinks until the room starts to blur. Emptied out, he falls asleep in his suit.

The next morning, Ilya takes a cab to the airport and a flight to New York. He nurses his hangover with a coffee during the layover. Then he boards the plane to Moscow. 

Chapter Text

Ilya knows he's made a mistake the second the plane takes off. With 10 hours on the clock until he arrives in Russia - and no option to turn back - it hits him that this is reality. America disappears behind him.

He knows what to expect in Moscow and that makes it worse. Ilya will have to take a taxi from the airport to the family estate. He will be let in by the butler. If his father is in his right mind Ilya will be ordered to attend dinner where he will be reprimanded and insulted all while staying fearfully, painfully silent. If his father is not well he may be softer but he may not even remember that Ilya is there. Ilya cannot decide which option is more painful. Either way he will spend the night alone in the big house where his mother died.

Ilya hears the echoes of his friends' warnings - that this is not normal. Is not okay.

Ilya isn't stupid. He knows, intellectually, how fucked up it all is. His family uses him for fame and money and prestige and Ilya lets them because it is easier that way. Because he hates to be accused of laziness and selfishness. Because he wants someone to be proud of him. 

A small voice whispers, Shane is proud of you.

Or, he was. Before Ilya ruined everything and yelled at Shane. Ilya doesn't remember how to care about someone without showing his teeth.  

Don't go to Russia, Shane said.

And Ilya thinks, What if I don't?

It's a good thing Ilya has a private seat in first class because he goes totally catatonic at the thought. Don't go to Russia. Ilya has spent years drinking and fucking and partying - all to keep that thought quiet. Years of isolation and heaviness and dreading every summer. Years spent wondering if this would be the time his father figured out exactly how much of a disappointment Ilya is - and put an end to it all. Don't go to Russia. Ilya has never been brave enough to think these words. Now Shane Hollander has spoken them into existence, and it changes everything.

His body stops working. Just freezes. Total overdrive. System failure. For the next ten hours Ilya thinks many, many forbidden thoughts. 

*

A flight attendant has to shake his shoulder to get Ilya's attention. He looks around in a daze and sees that the plane is empty. It's like moving through mud, climbing the jet bridge. An announcement in Russian comes over the speakers but it's like he no longer speaks the language. 

He is back in his home country and it feels wrong. 

Twice while making his way through the airport his feet just stop. Like his body is rejecting it. 

Waiting at the baggage carousel, Ilya turns his phone on for the first time since leaving the hotel in Vegas. It blows up with messages from Shane and Sveta. There might even be a message from Scott Hunter. There are no messages from his brother or father. 

Why is he doing this? For what - for blood? For family? This is not family; this is fear. Fear and shame. But Ilya is no longer a child. He does not have to cower. He does not have to present himself for punishment and apologize for existing. That doesn't make it any less true that leaving Russia behind would be leaving a part of himself behind. Except now Ilya thinks that maybe that's a good thing. 

He has so few happy memories here. Here, he is only a hockey player needing discipline. Here, he is the too-soft, too-emotional second son. Here, he is a little boy crying for his mama. 

He thinks he might feel better if he can leave these versions of himself behind.

Ilya collects his suitcase. He calls a cab and gives the address of the apartment he keeps in downtown Moscow. He will not go to the family estate tonight. As the city lights flicker past, Ilya rolls down the window and lights a cigarette. He takes a long puff, and finally exhales. 

*

Another lit cigarette trembles in his hand. Ilya presses the call button and waits for Svetlana to pick up. 

"Ilyusha, you're giving me gray hair," she says in Russian. 

It settles him to hear her voice. He smiles despite himself. "Yes, I know. I would apologize but you won't accept it since I don't plan to stop." 

"As if I didn't know. You're a very stubborn man. Almost as stubborn as Shane Hollander." 

Ilya takes a drag of his cigarette. He dislikes the idea of Shane and Sveta talking about him. "Ah, so he told you what happened?" 

"He told me he tried to talk you out of returning to Russia for the summer. Seems to think we can tag-team to convince you."

Ilya swallows thickly. "Can you?" 

"You didn't read my texts, did you?"  

No. Ilya did not. 

He makes himself say, "Shane thinks it would be better for me not to come back here. Is that what you think?" 

"It's not my life, Ilyusha. Who cares what I think?" 

He tries to say several things. You're the only one who understands what this is like. You've been the only witness to my life for so long. You never told me not to come back here. Can you give a reason to stay? Can you give me a reason to go? Is there someone waiting for me in Canada or have I fucked that up, too?

What comes out is, "Sveta, please." 

"Okay, Ilyusha." There's a change in her voice then. A newfound resolve. "Listen now because there's something I need to tell you." There's the sound of movement from the other end of the phone. A door sliding closed. "My mother told me something before she died. I kept it from you because I thought it would only break your heart. But I think you'll break your own heart anyway if I don't tell you now." 

Ilya's heart kicks in his chest. Their mothers had been friends once. He remembers seeing Liliana Vetrova often as a young child, then less and less as time went on. As his father become stricter. More controlling of where and with whom mama went. 

"Ilya, I think you should know that Irina was planning to leave him. She was planning to leave Russia. With you."

He's sent reeling. Ilya clutches the phone like a lifeline. "Why didn't she?"

"Your father found out and put a stop to it. Froze all her bank accounts. Confined her to the house. To make sure she couldn't leave with you. My mother doesn't know exactly how he found out but she thinks it could have been Alexei. Maybe Irina tried to take him too but he was scared, or already old enough to be corrupted by your father. I don't know."

The thick summer air presses in around him. Mama tried to leave. Mama didn't want to come back, either. 

"When?" Ilya's voice comes out like gravel.

"About six months before she died." 

It's like being kicked in the ribs. 

For so long Ilya wondered if he had been the cause of his mother's suffering. In indirect ways, he thinks he probably was. Every time his mama had to see him punished. Every time he cried in her arms. But he wasn't the problem. She planned to take him with her. The dream of freedom included him. 

It was Grigori who killed that dream. Grigori who stifled her and snuffed her out.

"I hate him," Ilya says, so angry that tears pool in his eyes. "I hate him for taking her from me." 

"He has never deserved you, Ilyusha. If you want to punish him for it, punish him by living the way she would have wanted." 

Ilya stubs out his third - fourth? - cigarette beneath his heel. He lights another. The scent of nicotine and the sound of Svetlana's voice are the only things keeping him from driving out to the family estate right now to beat up a sad, sick old man. 

"She wanted to leave," Ilya says.

"That's right."

"She never planned to come back."

"Never." 

The city lights of Moscow go blurry in Ilya's gaze.

Svetlana continues, "I didn't want to push you, Ilyusha. I didn't think you were ready and I was afraid you would be so lost without Russia. I hope you can forgive me for keeping this from you." 

"I understand," he says, and he does, "There's nothing to forgive." 

Even just a year ago, this news would have sent him into an uncontrollable spiral (and likely a multi-day bender). Because, before, he would be adrift. Running from Russia instead of running toward something.

Someone.

She stays on the phone in silence for a very long time. 

"Sveta?"

"I'm here." 

"What do I do now - if this is the last time I am ever here?"

*

Alexei calls 27 times over the next two days. Ilya ignores each and every one. He fantasizes a bit about confronting his brother. It would be so satisfying to punch his stupid face. But Ilya knows this is a bad idea with only two possible outcomes. The first, that Ilya will revert to the cowering child he always seems to become in Alexei or Grigori's presence. The second, that Ilya will actually kill his brother and have to flee the country as a criminal. 

It's better to ignore.

The one person Ilya will miss here is little Katya, his niece. She is a sweet girl with a smile like his mama's. She likes horses. Ilya sets up a trust for her to collect when she turns 18. He writes her a letter, too, and the bank promises to deliver it when she receives the trust.

Following Svetlana's extremely pragmatic check-list, Ilya spends his last days in Moscow settling his affairs. He sells the apartment and donates anything that won't fit in a suitcase. There are some childhood books left behind at the family house but Ilya resigns himself to losing them. He will not set foot there again unless he has to. He goes to the American consulate but he still has 5 years left on his American work visa so he can't renew anything for now. He takes a pamphlet about applying for permanent residency. Goes to the civil registrar for copies of his birth certificate and other legal documents. Svetlana fires his hockey agent, and his financial manager - both of whom were chosen by his father and both of whom had a habit of skimming off the top.

He doesn't text Shane. Everything he wants to say is too big for a text. Instead, he lets Svetlana pass on the message that Ilya is safe and only staying in Moscow for a week or so. He doesn't let himself read Shane's messages. 

On the last day, he visits his mother's grave. 

It's a tiny plot separated from the rest of the church. In their sect of Orthodoxy, suicide is a sin, and those who commit it cannot be buried on the official church grounds. That's fine by Ilya. His mama never liked the stuffy old nuns and judge-y congregationalists. She has her own space. It's more peaceful that way.

Ilya is surprised that he doesn't cry. He just sits there with the sun on his face and her cross necklace in his fingers. 

"My beautiful mama," he promises, "I will do it for both of us now." 

He leaves the graveyard with more hope in his heart than he's felt in a long, long time. 

Chapter Text

Lily's Friend: He leaves Moscow tomorrow. He wants you to know.

Shane: Can't he tell me himself?

Lily's Friend: Apparently not

Lily's Friend: He's not ignoring you he's saving you for later

Lily's Friend: Please be patient with my idiot friend 

Shane: I'm trying to be.

*

It's been 8 days since that night in Vegas. Shane thinks he's felt every possible human emotion in that timeframe. The agony of Ilya's rejection. The terror of imagining him back in Russia. The guilt of possibly overstepping when he calls Svetlana. The embarrassment of sending more than a dozen unread text messages. Then the cosmos-altering relief when Svetlana tells him that 1) Ilya won't stay the whole summer in Russia and 2) He wants Shane to know that.

There's frustration, too. He feels like a fish on a hook. Waiting for Ilya to decide if he's for catch or release. 

The logical side of Shane knows that Ilya is going through a lot. He just doesn't know how much longer he can wait around for a response before he combusts. He checks flights to Moscow. Talks himself out of it with the memory of Ilya ordering him from the hotel room. He's a pendulum swinging from What if he needs my help? to He doesn't even want me. The emotional roller-coaster exhausts him and seems to leach energy from everyone around him. He's been a nightmare to his parents. He knows he'll be impossible to deal with until he figures this thing with Ilya out. So Shane cancels his plans with them and resolves to spend his days alone at the cottage, slowly driving himself insane. 

Waiting for Ilya to text back. 

He checks his messages for the hundredth time today and see the moment his last text goes from delivered to read.

The typing bubble appears. Disappears. 

Shane nearly tosses it across the kitchen. 

The typing bubble comes back. 

Lily: Will you be alone in two hours? I want to talk.

Shane: Yes

*

Shane decides to take the call outside. He's pacing the back porch, psyching himself up, physically shaking with nerves. It wouldn't shock him if Ilya is calling to end it. Ilya keeps running away. Shane hates the idea of it but - maybe it's time to let him. He can't keep living with the uncertainty. It's eating him alive. 

Tires crunch over gravel. Shane's first instinct is annoyance. He told his parents he didn't want to see them today. Don't they know he's an adult? 

Phone in hand, he rounds the house as a car door closes. Weird, that's not his parents' car. The cottage is secluded enough that it's hard to believe someone would use his driveway to turn around in. Maybe it's -

Holy shit.  

Ilya Rozanov is standing in his driveway. He's wearing a Boston tank top and the kind of linen short shorts that men wear in Europe. His curls have grown out a bit but not enough to cover his eyes as they light up at the sight of Shane. 

"Shane," he says, like he couldn't keep it in any longer. His hands wind around each other nervously. It's the least sure of himself Shane has ever seen him. "Shane, I am sorry to - oof."

Shane throws himself at Ilya so hard that they go crashing back against the car. Ilya's arms wrap around him with a shaky exhale. Shane breathes in the familiar scent of him and revels in his warmth. He hadn't let himself dream that this would happen. 

Finding words again, Shane says, "Ilya. You scared me." He's still clinging like an octopus. 

"I'm sorry. I'm sorry, Shane." Ilya's voice comes out deep and raw. "I was so scared and I hurt you. I'm sorry I left. I'm sorry I yelled at you and made you go away."

It's impossible to tell which one of them is causing the trembling with how smashed together they are. They pull apart just enough to look at each others' faces. Ilya's palm cups his cheek. He looks wrung out - like he just got off a flight from Russia and drove straight to the cottage. Bloodshot eyes, pale skin, and a nervousness in his expression that only Shane gets to see. Ilya looks exhausted and devastatingly handsome. For a long moment they drink each other in.

"I'm sorry," Ilya says again, sounding absolutely riddled with guilt. 

Shane doesn't say it's okay - it's not. But he does understand it. He understands Ilya and he doesn't need a drawn-out explanation. Not when Ilya left his home country behind to be here with Shane. That act of courage speaks louder than a thousand apologies. 

He brushes a kiss across Ilya's mouth. You're forgiven. And, because Shane is far from perfect himself, he tells Ilya, "I'm sorry for pushing you. I don't want you to feel like you can never go back home because of me." 

"Is not just for you. I - Shane, even if I never see you again, I will not go back to Russia. It is not my home anymore."

It takes a minute to sink in. "Holy shit," Shane says. His mind is already turning over possibilities. Will Ilya need to apply for U.S. citizenship? What if they get outed? Does the Russian government have the power to compel him back? 

Ilya takes Shane's hand and brings it to his lips. "Was my choice, okay? You were right. It was killing me. That place, my family - they make me cruel and terrible and heavy and sad. I don't want to be that way anymore."

It's only because he's so relieved that Shane can admit, "I still should have let you get there on your own."

Ilya clicks his tongue. "Could not do it on my own. I needed you, and Sveta, and to visit my mama again." Shane brushes a tear off Ilya's cheek, their hands still clutching one another. "You saved me, Shane. I am only sorry I made it so hard on you." 

Shane thinks he might overflow with emotion. He wants to bundle Ilya up and never let him out of sight again. But he still doesn't know what Ilya's doing here. A flash of fear strikes him. Maybe this is Ilya's way of saying goodbye. 

His breathing goes shallow as Shane makes himself ask, "So you came here to apologize?"

"No. I came to tell you that I love you."

Shane short-circuits.

"Holy shit."

Ilya is holding on like he might shatter if he lets go. He's squeezing Shane's hand so tight it's painful as he says it again, "I love you, Shane," with so much fear in his eyes. 

Shane knows without a shadow of a doubt that Ilya doesn't expect him to say it back. That Ilya thinks he's been too much, too difficult, too complicated. He's been trained to think that he is hard to love. It's that thought which gives Shane the power to speak. 

"I love you, too." Then he's saying it again, into Ilya's mouth, "I love you so much," and Ilya is swallowing the words down like he's been starving. Their noses smush together and it's not so much kissing as it is attempting to merge into one entity. 

"Fuck, Hollander. I want you," Ilya chokes out. "I know I don't -"

Shane cuts him off. He'll cut off every one of Ilya's doubts for the rest of his life if he has to. "You have me, baby. You have me." 

Ilya makes a soft, pained noise and pulls Shane fully into his arms. Shane goes willingly, latching his legs around Ilya's waist. He feels light headed from the sensation of being utterly enveloped. Ilya growls something into his neck that sounds suspiciously like mine.

Shane finds himself carried up the steps and pressed against his front door. He is very okay with this. Ilya's flush against him, their bodies slowly grinding as they attempt to kiss while grinning and gasping like two love-drunk idiots.

Fumbling for the door, Shane manages to turn the knob without dislodging himself from Ilya's mouth. This is more a testament to Ilya's determination than to Shane's current coordination. Ilya's hands are hot under his shirt and Shane whines into his neck. He's rapidly losing the battle with his cuteness aggression and thinks he will have to bite Ilya before they've even taken off their shoes.

"Shoes," Shane grunts out. Because he will not have dirty shoes walking through this house, sweeping declarations of love or not. 

"Da, shoes." Ilya adjusts his hold to toe off his own shoes. Good thing Shane is flexible because he manages to do the same while still wrapped around Ilya's waist. 

Still, it gives them a moment of pause. Ilya grins at him with a smile that makes Shane think his heart will explode. 

"You want to give me tour now, Mr. Real Estate?" 

"Yeah," Shane laughs into his mouth, "Tour starts in the bedroom."

Just for that, Ilya tosses him onto the mattress.

It turns soft again immediately. They just can't help themselves. "Ya tebya lyubyov," Ilya whispers. 

"I love you," Shane says back. 

For a long while there's only skin and heat and muttered Russian confessions pressed to his hipbone, his naval, his sternum. The weight of Ilya and the pleasure of their bodies and the earth-shattering relief that he loves me, he loves me, he loves me.

After, Shane holds Ilya on top of him and strokes a hand through his sweaty curls.

"You came all the way here for me," he murmurs in amazement.

Ilya hums his agreement. "Yes. Like stray puppy. Will you keep me, Hollander?" 

It's a joke that's not a joke. Shane squeezes him tight. "Yeah, Rozanov. I'm keeping you."

*

They laze in bed for a while before getting up to make lunch. Shane does give Ilya the tour, and immediately gets mocked for his well. 

"It's really good water," he insists.

"Water is water, Hollander." 

"Just wait. I'll convert you."

Ilya is unconvinced.

They eat on the porch and revel in the afternoon sun. 

"Your freckles are showing more," Ilya whispers, like it's a secret just between the two of them. 

Later, they curl up on the couch for a movie. It quickly turns into kissing. It's soft and lazy. Exploratory in a way they've never had the time for. Even in Sochi they were constrained by worry and Ilya's still-healing injuries. 

Ilya grows heavier against Shane. The kisses turn gentle. Ilya presses his face to Shane's throat and leaves it there. 

"We can nap some more if you want?" Shane offers.

He shakes his head. "Is okay." 

But Ilya's eyes are still bloodshot and he's clearly fighting sleep.

"Rest, okay? It's normal to be jet-lagged."

"Is not jet lag," Ilya argues. "Is you."

"What," Shane teases, "My boring is putting you to sleep?"

He feels Ilya's smile against his skin. "Not that. Is like how after the season ends we all get sick. Adrenaline crash, yes? Now that I am with you my body knows it is safe."

Shane's throat constricts. "That's right. You're safe now." He's not sure which of them he's reassuring. 

*

"Did you really come here straight from Russia?" He asks over dinner. He can't help it. After more than a week of unanswered texts it's hard to believe this is real - even with Ilya right in front of him. 

Ilya almost looks bashful. "Yes. There are four suitcases in rental car."

"Four?" Shane pokes him a bit. "You have four suitcases worth of clothes and you chose a Boston Raiders tank top and short shorts for your big rom com moment?"

"Boston is best team in the League."

"Fuck off."

"And you like my short shorts."

Shane has no rebuttal to that. 

"Anyway," Ilya says, "Is not all clothes. I came direct from Russia with everything from my apartment there." He shrugs like that wasn't a life-changing decision. "Will have to return rental car sometime." 

That brings Shane to the question he's dreading. "How long can you stay?"

"As long as you want me here." 

Shane sits up straighter. "Really?"

"You are surprised," Ilya says, like he can't understand why. 

"Yeah, a little." Shane blushes at what he's about to say, "I guess I'm still sort of expecting you to decide you don't want this and run away." 

"Ah." His eyebrows furrow. "Yes, that makes sense." Ilya sets his fork down but doesn't say more. 

Shane starts to regret voicing that particular worry.

"It was not good of me to run like I did before. I am done with that, okay?" It's a rare moment of seriousness from Ilya. His expression stays firm. "I know I said terrible things to you when you asked me to come here but, I will gladly stay here all summer if you let me."

It's too good to be true; Shane believes him anyway. "I want you here. I want to be together, if that's what you want."

"Yes," Ilya nods. "I have not been with anyone else since Sochi. I do not want anyone else. Only you."

That settles an anxiety Shane hadn't realized he had. "Me neither. Just you." 

Ilya is smiling at him again in a way that makes Shane want to do insane things. Like bite him. Or propose. 

"So we are happy boyfriends now?" Ilya says, alluding to the words he'd thrown around during their fight. 

"Yeah. Boyfriends." Wow. He thinks. Wow, wow, wow. 

"Hmm," Ilya smirks. He slides his chair closer. Sneaks a hand up Shane's inner thigh. "Boyfriends. You did not say happy. Maybe I need to remind you how happy we can be." Ilya grins up at him as he sinks to his knees. 

*

Ilya wakes up with the sun on his back and Shane snoring into his shoulder. He can't remember ever being happier. The build-up to leaving Russia was such agony and in the blink of an eye that pain has disappeared. It is a weight lifted from him. 

He's free.

There are lots of problems left to solve, of course. He turned off his phone three days ago (after reaching the cottage and after texting Sveta that he'd made it). He knows there will be many, many angry messages from his brother and father. Ilya thinks he will need to get a new phone number. He'll have to hire a new agent as well, and a financial manager who won't take a quarter of his wages. He needs to find an immigration lawyer. Most troublesome of all, at some point he'll have to separate himself from Shane long enough to bring the rental car back. 

And yet, there is no black cloud hanging overhead when he thinks of these problems. The melancholy and despondency that has chased him for years is suspiciously absent. He knows that Shane loving him doesn't solve everything but, for the first time he feels like maybe it really will get better.  

Just last night, Shane confessed that he plans to come out to his parents. He asked Ilya if he was okay with them knowing about him - as if Ilya would ever give up the chance to hear Shane call him his boyfriend. 

They haven't talked about the future beyond this summer, either. That problem does scare Ilya. He's hoping that the rumors are true about Yuna Hollander and that she will serve them up a happy ending on a silver platter. 

So long as she doesn't punch him for being a Raider. 

Ilya is willing to take his chances on her, though. From the way Shane talks about his parents Ilya is certain that they love him. He doesn't know quite what to expect from loving parents these days but he thinks it will be okay.  

Shane stirs against him. He does a sleepy stretch like a cat, giving Ilya the chance to admire his flexing muscles. 

"Good morning, solnoshko," Ilya says.

"Morning baby," Shane says, blinking slowly awake.

Ilya thinks back to his first night at the cottage. They'd traded kisses in the dark until Ilya felt the anxiety overwhelm him and finally said Are you sure this is what you want? I know I am hard to love.

It's not hard, Shane said, his expression unwavering, Loving you is so easy I've been doing it since I was 17 years old.  

Ilya will keep those words in his heart forever, right next to his mama. 

He thought he would only ever know the cold shadow of his mother’s absence and his father’s contempt. He looks at Shane now and his eyes are opened. His heart is warm. It won't always be this perfect but, he won't ever be alone again.

The sun is there. He knows it.