Chapter Text
Rain patters against the windows, running down the side of Ilya’s Ottawa home, pooling in the cracks in the cement, forming larger puddles in the uneven divots in the otherwise pristine back lawn.
These divots had been something of a mystery the first time Shane had noticed them, given that he knows for certain Ilya pays for a very expensive weekly yard-maintenance service, and that this house is a new build, (Shane having obsessively picked through its every online listing before Ilya had even booked a viewing). The mystery had resolved itself not two hours later, when Ilya had let Anya outside, where she had immediately bound across the yard and set to work apparently trying to burrow her way underground.
The various ‘Anya-holes’, at best creative landscaping and at worst a genuine tripping hazard, have filled up into scattered, oddly shaped puddles, smooth surfaces rippling with the still-falling rain.
He wraps his hand tighter around his mug of tea, relishing the warmth bleeding through smooth ceramic, watching the swirl of early-fall yellows and greens outside the rain-spattered glass. Steam curls up, carrying the gentle scent of mint and green tea, and he briefly lets himself be entranced by it. Here, time stands still, even as his brain throws itself relentlessly back into the ring.
Today’s headlining match? Replaying yesterday’s call from his lawyer over and over and over again, searching for any minutia he might’ve missed, shredding the brief, mostly one-sided conversation to pieces, reviewing it, reconstructing it, breaking it down all over again.
It hadn’t been much more than an update, really, to cap off what they already know. Ilya’s stalker turned Shane’s attacker had been a minor member of the Raider’s road crew, had had access to trip schedules, addresses, and hotel bookings, and, having apparently been set off by Ilya’s sudden transfer to the Centaurs, had turned an obsession into jealousy into war.
Why Shane had been the main target is still something of a mystery, one that he’d started to try and unravel before being reeled back in by more levelheaded parents and boyfriends; tread carefully, for down that path madness lies.
But there had still been a moment of blinding panic, where he thought that this person had figured ‘it’ out, that they were both going to be outed, anxiety spiralling into horror, a downward trending loop that had only been stopped by Rose, who’d sent link after link of red-string conspiracy articles (proving everything, from her secret lesbian polyamorous cabal to her supposed alien-lizard origins) that he’d finally calmed down a little. Even if something had come out, (which it hadn’t), most of the hockey-watching world probably wouldn’t believe someone crazy enough to try and take out Montreal’s star center. Probably.
All that aside, he can at least rest easily; the evidence had been clear-cut, the trial relatively quick, and the object of his fear moved far, far out of the reach of either his or Ilya’s life. It’s a happy ending, more or less, but that hasn’t stopped the runaway freight train of thought that’s been going more or less non-stop for about a month.
The sound of the front door clicking opening, and the subsequent jingling of dog collar shakes him from his stupor, and he steps away from the back window, padding silently across the kitchen, setting the tea down on the island as he goes.
He’s greeted by a vision of rain-soaked Russian and sopping dog, tiny puddles forming on the tile as Ilya and Anya engage in a furious battle of wills over a towel. After some posturing, a little begging (On Ilya’s side, for Anya is far too dignified), and one failed escape attempt, she’s finally bundled up and functionally wrung out, only slightly damp by the time she finally breaks free to bound up to Shane, brown fur sticking up at odd angles, and tongue lolling.
He gives a quick scritch behind the ears, dancing out of reach when she tries to jump up against his legs. She gives up, eventually, and takes off in the direction of the living room, and he figures the odds of her landing on the couch as opposed to her own bed as being seventy:thirty.
Thoughts of muddy pawprints and wet fur are banished by six-foot-three inches worth of Russian boyfriend, who’s finally succeeded in wrestling off his rain jacket, and wastes no time in catching Shane’s chin and planting an enthusiastic kiss on his cheek.
“Kotik, did you miss me?”
He grimaces, fighting the smile pulling at the edges of his mouth,
“Ew, Ilya, you’re wet.”
Ilya, in response, only leans in further, moving to press his mouth to the underside of Shane’s jaw, expertly nailing the sensitive skin all while giving him a mouthful of wet curls.
He sputters, and tries to extricate himself, receiving one final cold, sloppy, rain-water kiss before he succeeds.
“Oh my god. Go change.”
Sad eyes, a near-perfect imitation of the look he had been giving Anya minutes earlier, as he says,
“Alone?”
He gives Ilya a gentle push,
“Yes, alone. And don’t leave your wet clothes on the bed.”
Dark eyebrows shoot up,
“This isn’t even your house, Hollander.”
“Yeah, but I’m still sleeping here, aren’t I?”
A smile curves around the corners of Ilya’s mouth, straddling the lines between lechery and elation, as he takes a few easy steps backwards towards the stairs, “Is good point. Would be better to ruin the sheets together. Team effort.”
Shane doesn’t deign to reply beyond a brief eyeroll, and stalks back towards the kitchen, fully intent on finding Anya and double-checking the status of her water bowl.
It’s full, of course, but she makes sad eyes at him until he dutifully rinses it out and refills it from the filter, (she knows when it’s from the tap, he isn’t sure how she knows, but she does, and no amount of logical negotiating will convince her or Ilya that the tap water in this city is some of the best in the world), setting it back down again and giving her a scratch behind still-damp ears.
He catches a glimpse of his phone on the counter, its screen dark, but beneath the silent exterior he knows the near endless abyss of work still waits. His social media manager wants him to put out a statement, acknowledgement without condemnation, tacit forgiveness, a response befitting the MHL’s golden boy. There’s nothing he’d rather do less, frankly, now that the case is closed, he would be more than happy for the whole affair to disappear into fading memory. He seems to be the only one that thinks so, though, because media stints keep devolving, and more than once he’s been pulled early by the Metro’s social media handler. If anything, he’s felt like he’s been under more scrutiny now than during the summer-
Footsteps, and broad arms are draping themselves over his shoulders, heat radiating across his back.
“Your thinking is too loud.” Hazel eyes flick briefly over the kitchen, “You have not had lunch.”
The sentence has the configuration of a question, but the intonation makes it bluntly clear that Ilya already knows the answer, and he doesn’t bother to wait for a reply, leaving Shane at the counter and marching over to the fridge, pulling the door open and staring inside. He looks over the contents before making a dissatisfied grunt, and closing the door.
“I will make the noodles you like. The, ah, buckwheat ones. Bitter. High in mi-cro-nu-trients.”
Ilya lets the final world roll out slowly, purposefully over-pronouncing each syllable.
“What, soba?”
“Yes, that.” A dismissive hand wave as pots and bowls clatter their way onto the counter, “You want hot or cold?”
“Since when do you like soba?”
“Yuna and I have been educating each other.” There’s an easy shrug, as Ilya does a decent job of mimicking bland indifference, moving over to the pantry, “This work I do for you, yes? Because I am good boyfriend. And is better than quinoa. So, hot or cold?”
Wind gusts outside, sending a wave of droplets against the window, and he half-shivers at a phantom chill.
“Hot.”
Ilya nods his approval, and sets about transforming their kitchen with brutal efficiency.
The cooking had been a surprise, initially. But Ilya is competitive by nature, and seemed to take every half-empty plate or polite refusal as even more reason to suss out and master Shane’s nutritional hyper fixations du-jour. This, combined with the weekly/bi-weekly dinners at his parent’s has given Ilya a wide and slightly terrifying repertoire; even if he grimaces at the frozen spinach pucks in his freezer, and scowls at the chia seeds soaking into slime on his countertop, he still portions out smoothies with as nearly as much accuracy as Shane’s practiced hands.
In the end, he does manage to elbow his way into the fray, negotiating cutting the spring onions and doing the dishes while Ilya does something fragrant and savoury to the pot on the stovetop.
Finally settling at the kitchen island, two bowls of soup steaming between them. Two cans clank down as well, green and red labels shining dully in the overhead lights. Ilya tucks into his portion with gusto, but Shane’s spoon doesn’t quite make it to his mouth, idling in the bowl instead, tracing repetitive circles through dark broth.
There’s a pause, across the countertop, and he looks up into Ilya’s unwavering gaze.
“You don’t like?”
He blinks, “What? No, it’s great.” He swallows a mouthful, as proof, and regrets it almost immediately as rich broth goes down wrong, coughing and spluttering for a second before he manages to find his voice again,
“I’m just not that hungry.”
Ilya hums, and drums his fingers on the marble surface.
“Are you getting sick? Because if you think this will make me go easy on you tomorrow, it will not.”
“Fuck off. And I’m not getting sick. I’ve just been… Thinking.”
“Is dangerous thing, this thinking.” A beat, “You want to share?”
He shrugs, and passes his spoon through the soup again, watching noodles swirl in the momentum of the dark liquid,
“Aren’t you worried?”
“Worried? About what?”
“About all the attention. That someone’s going to put two and two together, that we’re not being careful enough.”
Ilya looks pensive for a second, and sets down his own spoon.
“Yes. Of course. I am well aware. But we are not giving them,” and he waves a hand to indicate the world at large, “Anything to see.”
“I’m literally in your house, and we go out to dinners sometimes, my parents follow you on instagram, it’s like we’re leaving a trail of clues.”
Inhaling through his nose, Ilya lifts up one finger. “First. I have been to Lucas Haas's apartment no less than three times this week. He is new, lonely, he does not know where to set up router, he needs help to build furniture. And even if it is very boring, very slow, I do this anyway. This does not mean we are fucking.” Another finger. “Second. We have started foundation, which I am very happy with, very dedicated to, and we are working very hard on it together. I will go with you and entertain as many boring rich people as it takes to fund it. Yet I am still not fucking them.”
“Ilya-”
Another finger, and Ilya blithely continues, “Third. Your mother, very scary woman, has been following me since World Juniors. I think she took loss personally. So it makes no difference if she follows me or no. You are finding weaknesses in armor that people do not even know you are building. You are very smart,” and a hand reaches over to squeeze his wrist, “And it is good to think. But this is not good for you.”
Shane squints, “Not even after all this-”
“Especially after all this, moya lyubov. Someone has every jersey I have ever worn, every card, every weird head-wiggling doll-”
“Bobblehead.”
Ilya glares, “Not important. They have all this, and they still did not figure out that the thing that matters most to me is you. Either they are very stupid, which I think is untrue, because I am favourite player, or, maybe, we are not giving anyone any reason to suspect anything.”
“You think so?” He can’t quite keep the relief from bleeding through, and Ilya nods. “I do. Besides, if anyone knew, like press, they would not keep it secret. Ilya Rosanov, best in league, Casanova, falling for slow, boring Canadian? Is story of century.”
Shane snorts, and stretches to kick Ilya around the counter, “You’re such an ass.”
“But you looove me.”
He can’t deny that, but refuses to cede the point, taking a vengeful mouthful of soup instead. And another. It isn’t until the bowl is nearly empty that he looks up again, into a softer smile and shining eyes that he has, in fact, been winning this entire time.