Chapter Text
There is not a lot that Shane remembers from the hit. His memories from the aftermath are hazy in the way they get from heavy meds and concussions – not that Shane has had any of this degree of severity before.
But he’s pretty sure Hayden was there, Ilya with him, which is such a strange combination that it must have actually happened, because he wouldn’t be able to dream that up himself.
He’s pretty sure he asked Ilya to come to the cottage.
He’s pretty sure Hayden said I’m sorry, more times than Shane has ever heard him, even though he’s a born-and-raised Canadian boy. He hadn’t left any gaps for Shane to ask what he’s sorry for.
They taper off the heavy-duty painkillers once they’re sure his collarbone is as in-place as it can be and won’t require surgery. Within a couple of hours, the world steadies, until Shane can look over at Hayden’s form slumped in the visitor’s chair and not see double.
“What are you sorry for?” Shane asks. His voice is more of a croak than anything else, but it’s understandable enough.
“For– for reacting so poorly that you were distracted,” Hayden tells him tonelessly. His eyes are rimmed red, and the stubble on his face makes the dark circles under his eyes look so much worse.
Shane may love him.
He definitely loves him when Hayden levers himself up and helps Shane take a few sips of water from a cup on his bedside table.
“Did you hit me?” Shane asks.
“No?”
“Then you have nothing to be sorry for. I’ve put worse distractions aside since I was eight years old.” Yes, Shane could have done without Hayden silently freaking out, but it would do him a disservice to pretend it’s the reason he got hit. At least he’s pretty sure it wasn’t. Again – the hit itself is lost in his mind, so he doesn’t know what had happened. He’s survived six years of games against Ilya and all the distractions that came with their illicit affair; he can’t see himself letting Hayden freaking out influence what Ilya’s needling never had.
Hayden scrubs a hand over his face. “I’m still sorry.”
Shane grimaces. “You’re forgiven,” he says instead of arguing more, which takes the wind out of Hayden’s sails as he’d hoped. For a moment, a not-quite-comfortable silence stretches between them. Shane grasps around for something to say. “Is this why you brought Ilya here? As a sorry?”
Hayden rolls his eyes, which conveniently makes him not meet Shane’s. Shane shouldn’t be so relieved about that, but he is; the world is just a little too present now that the haze of the painkillers is receding. “I brought him because he looked like his life had ended in front of his eyes,” Hayden says bluntly. “Shit, you – it looked so bad.”
“Hayd,” Shane says, reaching out with his good hand. After a moment, Hayden takes the offered hand and Shane pulls, gently so as to not upset his collarbone but insistently.
Hayden clearly considers resisting, and then chooses the graceful approach rather than letting Shane yank him close. Good boy.
“I’m sorry.”
“You have nothing to be sorry for,” Hayden tells him, eyes closed as he lets his forehead rest against Shane’s forearm. “Just– fuck. I’m sorry for– for how I reacted.”
“You brought him to me,” Shane repeats, because it still feels a little unbelievable. “You went out of your way to collect Ilya Rozanov so he could see me. Hayd – you’re a good friend. The best.”
There’s silence for a beat, and then Hayden is crying. And Shane, still just enough blissed out that he’s not freaking out, pets his hair and lets him.
Shane’s parents show up just as he’s about to get discharged, which is a blessing right up until it comes to medication.
The nurse hands over the expected pain killers with dosage instructions, and then pulls out the vials Shane knows so well: refills for the anti-hanahaki inhalator. Fuck. “And these to be used twice a day. Mr. Pike informed us you have an inhaler already?”
“Shane?” Mom asks.
“Yes,” Shane says, resigned.
“What are these?”
“Oh,” the nurse says helpfully as she packages the vials, “a medium strength hanahaki poison, to be used with a steam inhaler.”
“Hanahaki?” Mom asks, her voice brittle.
“Yes. It’s currently well-controlled, but a coughing fit is the last thing Mr. Hollander will want for the next few weeks. There’s also a cough suppressant that’s safe to take, or heavier drugs if the spread cannot be contained. We’d usually not recommend that, but it’s imperative that his collarbone not get jostled for the next six weeks until it’s had a chance to heal.”
“I see,” Mom says. “Thank you.”
She isn’t looking at Shane, her eyes glassy as she stares at the plain box the nurse has stowed those damned vials in. She doesn’t say a word until the nurse has left. Her smile is just as brittle as her voice earlier when she finally looks at Shane, before it firms up just a smidge too much. “Well. Let’s get you home, hm?”
Shit, Shane thinks, but he doesn’t have it in him to say anything else, so he just quietly follows her out to where Dad is waiting with the car.
His parents don’t ambush him right away.
Still, Shane can’t stop thinking about it. He’s reminded every time he sets up his inhalator, every time he has to clear his throat and sees Mom’s eyes linger on him.
But they don’t say anything. Not yet.
The thoughts keep knocking around in Shane’s head regardless, and so he’s quiet a couple days after getting home, listening to Ilya rant about the last game he’d played and all the stupid mistakes they’d made. The Raiders had lost 4-1, which is a painful loss this close to the playoffs, so Shane lets Ilya talk and hums and makes sympathetic noises. Thoughts are knocking around in his head, ones he can’t quite put into words yet.
“What is on your mind?” Ilya asks suddenly, barely pausing between insulting a turnover their d-pair had allowed and the question so that it takes Shane a moment to pivot.
“Nothing. Sorry.”
Ilya makes an impatient noise. “No sorrys; I can hear you think from here.”
Shane exhales. “I… I think I want to tell my parents. That I’m gay.”
For a long moment, Ilya is quiet. “You are safe, yes?”
“Of course.” Shane pauses. “I know… They’re very progressive.”
Ilya snorts.
“Very open. Don’t mind gay people. I just…”
“You are scared?”
“Maybe. I shouldn’t be. But…”
“It is scary,” Ilya says, his voice soothing, “but you are brave.”
“I don’t feel brave.”
“They love you,” Ilya says with a conviction Shane didn’t know he felt. “And even Pike did not lose his mind, and your parents sound smarter than him.”
Shane can’t help but laugh. “Careful, with the way you keep chirping him, I might get jealous.”
Ilya squawks, and starts ranting about how that is unfair of Shane, and Shane closes his eyes and just lets himself listen and bask in Ilya’s voice.
Coming out to his parents is easier said than done.
They raise the topic delicately, once, asking about Shane’s medication and if he needs help with the inhalator, which he does not.
It would be a great segue, except all words he might have had suddenly turn to dust in his mouth. It’s three simple words; two, if you contract them. I’m gay. But he can’t shake his mother’s voice, her reminders that so many little kids are looking up at him, that he’s a role model, that he’ll have to smile and bear the looks and just be better.
This is not smiling and bearing and being better.
So instead of opening his mouth, he fits the mask over his mouth and nose and fiddles with the settings on the machine. By the time it’s done, Dad asks if Shane wants to listen to a podcast with him before Mom can say anything else. Mom huffs and leaves the room, but she returns with coffee and cookies and doesn’t broach the topic again.
Or rather, she doesn’t broach the topic again that night.
They’re in the kitchen, just the two of them baking banana bread like they used to when Shane was very small, when Mom sighs.
“Just,” she says, like it’s a conversation they started a while ago and she’s picking back up now. Maybe they had. “I don’t – I can’t help but wonder why… why you felt like you couldn’t come to us with this.”
“Mom?” Shane asks, his voice breaking on the syllable.
Mom glances over at him, a complicated expression on her face. “I looked up hanahaki again,” she admits, and Shane thinks shit. Before he can panic, his mother turns to him fully, grasping his fingers. “I just – I never wanted to give you the feeling that you couldn’t come to us with anything, honey.” She bites her lip, and shit, her eyes are welling up now. Fuck. “Whatever – whatever it is, you don’t have to hide this. You can tell us anything and – and I’ll still love you. Hell, I’ll help you hide the body if necessary, you know?”
“I know,” Shane says, and fuck, now his own eyes are welling up, too. “I know, and just – I tried, Mom, I really did, but – I’m gay. I’m sorry.”
There. It’s out. Blood is rushing in Shane’s ears as he watches his mother process what he’s just said, and then she drops his hands and pulls him into a proper hug, still mindful of his sling. “Oh, honey. Darling. Shane – you have nothing to be sorry for. Thank you for telling me. I love you. It’s me who’s sorry – that we gave you the feeling you couldn’t tell us, that you carried this with you until you were choking on it. I’m sorry, honey.”
“I forgive you,” Shane says thickly, because he’s dizzy with relief and chock full with how much he loves his mother and because she raised him to let the other person know if he accepted their apology. “I love you, too.”
Mom keeps hugging him until both their eyes are dry. She is smiling when she steps back, giving Shane a sly look. “So. Are you seeing anyone?”
“No,” Shane says, because it’s the truth. Or – it mostly is, but…
“Shane–”
“It’s not – it’s not that I don’t want to tell you,” Shane says hurriedly, because the relief of having shared this with her is real, but the dread of who it is he is maybe seeing is very much real, and also… “It’s just – it’s complicated. I don’t know. I’m not – I don’t want to keep this from you, just – I don’t know. I’m sorry.”
“Don’t apologise, honey. We’re here whenever you’re ready, okay? And you don’t have to introduce us to – him,” she smiles at her own stumble at the pronoun, her eyes a little wet but warm like her hand on his arm, “if you don’t want to. Just. Your secrets are safe with us. Always. I promise.”
“Thank you,” Shane says, and maybe it’s his imagination, but it feels like another stalk in chest withers and frees up the space for air.
And then Scott Hunter wins the Cup and kisses another man on the ice and Shane barely manages to get up from the couch before Ilya is calling him.
Shane stumbles back into the living room still in a trance after they’ve hung up, unsure what they talked about aside from Ilya’s voice saying I’m coming to the cottage, I’m coming to the cottage, I’m coming to the cottage. It plays on repeat in his mind, too good to be true except that it’s very much real, and – god. God. Ilya is coming to the cottage.
“You alright, son?” Dad asks.
Shane nods. “Yes,” he says hoarsely. His eyes find Mom’s. “Remember what you asked me?” He takes a breath. “If I’m seeing someone? I – I think I am. Give me – give us a few days and – I think I might have someone to introduce to you. He’s coming to the cottage.”
“At your own pace, Shane,” Dad says, a promise to Shane and a warning to Mom, and Shane can’t help but grin. It’s echoed in Mom’s face, big and free and full of excitement.
Because Scott Hunter has won the Cup and kissed another man on the ice, and it means that maybe, just maybe, Shane and Ilya have a realistic future, too.
Ilya ends up making the drive to Montreal instead of flying, to keep his presence in Canada on the down-low. Both Montreal and Ottawa are hockey-crazed enough that the chances he wouldn’t be recognised are nearing zero. He shows up in his least flashy sports car, which Shane still rolls his eyes about, though he keeps his comments to himself as they transfer Ilya’s luggage to Shane’s far more sensible Jeep before parking Ilya’s car in Shane’s usual spot.
Of course Ilya chirps him for the car.
And then they’re on their way to the cottage, and Shane cannot believe that this is his life. Ilya Rozanov, coming to stay at Shane Hollander’s private cottage for two weeks. Who would have thought this would ever happen?
“So about this let’s be honest,” Ilya says later, after they’ve showered off the drive and the jizz and gotten off again in the shower, all wet and laughing and languid.
“Hm?” Ilya is a heavy weight against Shane’s side, drawing lazy patterns into chest that are just this side of ticklish.
“You are so easily out of breath. Why?”
For a moment, Shane stops breathing. Trust Ilya to ask the heavy questions.
“Shane?” Ilya is hovering over him, face creased with worry. Shane cups the back of his head and pulls him down, kissing Ilya until he feels himself be calm again.
“Sorry.” Shane presses another kiss to Ilya’s lips. “Just— I, uh. I… may have had a case of the flowers.”
Ilya raises both eyebrows and tilts his head a little. “Flowers? Hollander, what are you trying to say?”
Fuck, do they not call it that in Russia? “Uh – hanahaki. You know, the— growing flowers in your lungs because, uh, you’re stupid about feelings or secrets or something?”
Ilya’s eyes grow impossibly bigger with every word. “You have that?” he asks, hands frantically sliding over Shane’s torso as he shimmies down, like he can see the flowers in Shane’s chest. “Shane, you— are you sick? Are you getting treatment? Why—”
“Ilya,” Shane says, sharply enough it snaps Ilya out of his burgeoning panic. He flops down onto Shane, a tension in his frame that makes him tremble slightly. Jesus, you’d think Shane was dying. “Ilya, come here. No, up here.” With minimal coaxing, Ilya crawls up so he’s on top of Shane, keeping his weight carefully off him.
Shane rolls his eyes and pulls Ilya down onto him.
“Shane –”
“I’m not delicate.” Shane glares at him. “And— it’s okay. I got treatment for it, before Christmas, but— I’ve… been getting it out.”
Ilya rears back. “Getting it out? Surgery—”
“Ilya.” This time, it’s exasperation Shane puts in his voice, gratified when it snaps Ilya back into the present just as quickly. “I’m fine, okay? No surgery, no more meds, not since my collarbone healed, and – no more lies, you know? I… had a few things to come to term with. About myself. About us.”
There’s a shadow of a laugh playing at the corner of Ilya’s mouth before he visibly blanches. “Shit. Did— Solnyshko, did I make it worse?”
Shane snorts and pulls Ilya down for another kiss. Ilya resists for a moment, but when Shane slides the tip of his tongue against Ilya’s lips, Ilya melts into the kiss.
He leans his forehead against Shane’s when they part. “Honest, yes? So… did I?”
Shane snorts again. “Yeah, no, it started… a while back, but I didn’t actually know it was hanahaki until – until at your house.”
Of course Ilya rears back again. The sudden motion drives the air from Shane’s lungs, but it’s worth it for the mock outrage, so sweet above Ilya’s visible relief, that Ilya levels at him. “How did you not know?”
“I thought it was allergies!” Shane defends himself.
“Allergies?” Ilya boggles at him.
“Yeah, well.” Shane shrugs again, his cheeks flush with his embarrassment. Put like this, it really does sound stupid. “But… I got there in the end.”
“I am glad. And now you have me make sure you are honest.”
Shane smiles up at Ilya, helpless to do anything but turn his head so he can capture Ilya’s lips in another kiss. “Yeah. And I’m glad for that.” Another easy press of lips, and then Shane meets Ilya’s eyes as best as he can. “I love you, yeah?”
This close, he can watch Ilya’s face transform in real time: how his eyes widen ever so slightly, pupils dilating visibly; how the skin around his eyes creases as he starts smiling, with his eyes and his cheeks and his mouth. His mouth, which falls open a little a moment later. “I love you, too. Ya tebya lyublyu.”
Shane blinks. Something clicks in his mind, because—
“That’s what you said. In Russian. Didn’t you?”
Ilya tilts his head a little, his skin growing red. Shane refrains from licking at the blush at the last second. “I think I have loved you for so long.”
“So have I,” Shane admits, and then grins. They are here, at his cottage, in love and honest about it.
Ilya beams down at him, too, and then covers Shane’s body with his own again so they can make out properly, unhurried and content because they have two whole weeks here.
Things aren’t yet entirely perfect. Shane still has to introduce Ilya specifically to his parents, something he’s dreading. He probably should tell Rose. He’ll have to meet Svetlana, something he is also dreading, for rather different reasons than Ilya meeting his parents. They’ll still be playing for rival teams in the MLH. Shane will still need to get checked whether his hanahaki is really fully gone.
But for now, they have two weeks at the cottage where nobody will disturb them. Where they can just be, together and honest and in love.
And everything else can wait.