Chapter Text
By now, they had a routine.
It wasn't a particularly good routine.
Or a healthy one.
Or one Shane would ever recommend to another human being.
But it was theirs.
Every morning started the same way.
Shane woke up.
Shane immediately regretted waking up.
And Ilya followed him around like an overly affectionate bodyguard until the worst of the nausea passed.
Somewhere during the last few weeks, they had stopped treating it like an emergency.
The first time Shane had gotten sick, Ilya had nearly driven him to the hospital.
The second time, he'd spent three hours researching pregnancy complications.
By the third week, however, they'd both accepted that Shane's body had simply decided violence was the appropriate response to creating a human being.
This morning was no different.
The second Shane opened his eyes, he knew.
"Oh, for fuck's sake."
Beside him, Ilya groaned.
"Good morning to you too."
"I wasn't talking to you."
"That's somehow worse."
Shane ignored him.
Mostly because he was busy trying not to die.
The bathroom door slammed a few seconds later.
By now, Ilya didn't even bother asking if Shane needed him.
He simply followed.
A glass of water appeared beside the sink.
A hand settled against Shane's back.
And a familiar voice spoke quietly behind him.
"Breathe."
"I am breathing."
"Poorly."
"I'm literally breathing."
"Barely."
Shane considered murder.
Not seriously.
Just enough to make a point.
When the worst finally passed, he accepted the water.
Rinsed his mouth.
Then leaned against Ilya with all the grace and dignity of a dying Victorian woman.
"You look dramatic."
"I am dramatic."
"You are."
"I am suffering."
"You are."
"I need sympathy."
"You have sympathy."
"I need more."
A laugh rumbled through Ilya's chest.
Shane hated how much he liked that sound.
Especially before coffee.
Especially when he was trying to be annoyed.
By the time they made it downstairs, the nausea had eased into something manageable.
Not gone.
Never gone.
Just manageable.
Which was apparently the closest thing to victory they got these days.
The morning passed quietly.
Tea.
Toast.
A failed attempt at eggs.
A successful argument about eggs.
A second argument about whether the eggs had actually been successful.
"They're overcooked."
"They're cooked."
"That's not the same thing."
"They're eggs."
"They were eggs."
Ilya stared.
Shane stared back.
Neither moved.
Finally, Ilya sighed.
"I think the hormones are making you mean."
Shane gasped.
Actually gasped.
The audacity.
"The hormones?"
"Yes."
"The hormones are the problem?"
"I think they're contributing."
Shane pointed at him.
A dangerous gesture.
One that immediately informed Ilya he had made a mistake.
"A week ago, you told me I looked beautiful while I was crying over a sandwich."
"You were beautiful."
"The sandwich fell apart."
"I know."
"It fell apart in my hands."
"I know."
"I loved that sandwich."
"I know."
Shane narrowed his eyes.
"And now you're saying I'm hormonal?"
"I am saying that perhaps your reaction to the eggs was disproportionate."
The silence that followed was immediate.
Terrifying.
Deadly.
Ilya realized his mistake at exactly the same moment Shane stood up.
Slowly.
Dangerously.
"Disproportionate."
"Shane—"
"Disproportionate."
"I love you."
"Don't change the subject."
"I love you very much."
"Ilya."
"You are carrying my child."
"Ilya."
"You are incredibly brave."
"Ilya."
"And beautiful."
The glare weakened.
Just slightly.
Ilya noticed immediately.
The traitor.
A smile tugged at the corner of his mouth.
"You forgot handsome."
Shane sat back down.
"Now you're just pushing your luck."
The smile widened.
God.
Shane loved him.
That was the problem.
That was always the problem.
He loved him enough that even when he wanted to stay angry, he couldn't manage it for very long.
Not when Ilya looked at him like that.
Not when Ilya reached across the table and stole his hand.
Not when Ilya absent-mindedly kissed his knuckles while scrolling through yet another article about strollers.
The man had become unbearable.
Completely unbearable.
And Shane was hopelessly in love with him.
Which was probably why, an hour later, he found himself curled up beside Ilya on the porch swing despite still being offended about the eggs.
The swing moved lazily beneath them.
The lake stretched endlessly ahead.
For a while, neither of them spoke.
Shane rested his head against Ilya's shoulder.
Ilya pressed a kiss into his hair.
Another against his temple.
Then his cheek.
Then the corner of his jaw.
"You're clingy."
"I've always been clingy."
"Not like this."
"I disagree."
"You follow me into bathrooms."
"I follow you everywhere."
"That's not romantic."
"I think it is."
Shane rolled his eyes.
Then immediately settled closer.
Which ruined his argument somewhat.
Neither of them mentioned it.
"I've been thinking," Ilya said eventually.
Shane groaned.
Immediately.
Loudly.
"No."
"I haven't even said anything."
"Nothing good has ever followed those words."
A laugh escaped Ilya.
Then his expression softened.
Just slightly.
Enough for Shane to notice.
Enough for Shane to immediately become suspicious.
"We need to start telling people."
And just like that, the easy warmth of the morning disappeared.
Not completely.
Just enough.
Shane already knew where this conversation was going.
And he hated it.
"Oh no."
"Shane."
"No."
"We don't have to tell everyone."
"No."
"I'm serious."
"I know where this is going."
Ilya squeezed his hand.
"We don't owe the world an explanation."
That made Shane pause.
Because that wasn't what he'd expected.
"We don't have to tell reporters," Ilya continued.
"Or teammates. Or strangers. Or anyone we don't want to."
The knot in Shane's chest loosened slightly.
Then—
"But there are people who matter."
And there it was.
The real conversation.
The one Shane had been avoiding for weeks.
"The people we love deserve to hear it from us."
Shane closed his eyes.
Already exhausted.
Already defeated.
Already knowing exactly what came next.
"We should start with your parents."
Shane stared out at the lake.
The lake stared back.
Neither offered a solution.
Eventually, Shane sighed.
"What if I fake my death?"
Ilya blinked.
"What?"
"What if I fake my death?"
"Your first response is faking your death?"
"It's a strong option."
"It's an insane option."
"It's still on the table."
Ilya stared at him for a long moment.
Then—
"You are carrying our child."
"Exactly."
"And your solution is to fake your death."
"People have done more dramatic things."
"Name one."
Shane opened his mouth.
Paused.
Closed it again.
"That's not the point."
A laugh escaped Ilya.
Unfortunately, that only encouraged him.
"Okay, fine. Not death."
"Good."
"I disappear."
"Shane."
"I live here forever."
"Shane."
"This place is huge."
"It is."
"Nobody will find me."
"I will find you."
"You're ruining the fantasy."
Ilya smiled against the side of his head.
"The fantasy was ruined the moment you suggested becoming a forest cryptid."
"It could work."
"It absolutely could not."
"It could."
"You have a family."
"They'll think I'm travelling."
"For nine months?"
"I travel slowly."
Ilya actually laughed.
The traitor.
Shane folded his arms.
"I don't understand why you're so calm about this."
That got his attention.
The laughter faded.
The teasing softened.
Because beneath all of Shane's dramatics, there was something real.
Something frightened.
Something vulnerable.
"I am not calm," Ilya said quietly.
"You're a lot calmer than I am."
Ilya considered that.
"That's because I only have one terrifying conversation."
Shane turned toward him.
"One?"
"One."
"One?"
"Yes."
Shane stared.
Then pointed at himself.
"I have three."
A pause.
Then another.
And suddenly the words started tumbling out before he could stop them.
"My parents don't know I'm gay."
Ilya opened his mouth.
Shane pointed a warning finger.
"Don't."
"I wasn't going to say anything."
"You were absolutely going to say something."
"I was going to say your mother probably knows."
"That's not helping."
"Fair."
Shane groaned and dropped his head back against the swing.
The sky above them was annoyingly blue.
The birds were annoyingly happy.
The entire world felt annoyingly peaceful considering his life was falling apart.
"My parents don't know I'm gay," he repeated.
"Okay."
"That's conversation number one."
Ilya nodded.
"Conversation number two?"
Shane looked at him.
Actually looked at him.
The stupidly handsome face.
The stupidly nice eyes.
The stupidly perfect hair.
Honestly, it was offensive.
"I'm dating my rival."
A smile tugged at Ilya's mouth.
"There it is."
"There it is?" Shane repeated. "That's your response?"
"I was wondering when we were getting to that part."
"That part?"
"The part where you remember I'm your greatest enemy."
"My greatest enemy would not leave socks on the kitchen floor."
"That sounds exactly like something your greatest enemy would do."
Shane ignored him.
Mostly because he was right.
"Do you understand how insane this sounds?"
"I have some idea."
"No, seriously."
He sat up straighter.
Animated now.
Horrified now.
"My parents spent years watching us try to murder each other."
"Professionally."
"You checked me into the boards hard enough to make sports analysts discuss it for three days."
"You checked me right back."
"That's not the point."
"It's a little bit the point."
"It's not."
"It definitely is."
Shane threw a cushion at him.
Ilya caught it one-handed.
Without looking.
Showing off.
As usual.
"My parents are going to hear that I'm gay and dating my hockey rival."
"Mm."
"And somehow that's not even the worst part."
The words landed heavily between them.
Because suddenly neither of them were joking anymore.
Neither of them were laughing.
Neither of them were pretending.
Shane looked down at his hands.
At the tea that had gone cold.
At the life he'd never expected.
Then said quietly:
"And then I have to tell them about the baby."
Silence.
The kind that wasn't uncomfortable.
Just honest.
The kind that existed when something mattered.
A breeze moved through the trees.
The porch swing creaked softly.
Shane swallowed.
"They're going to think I've completely lost my mind."
"They won't."
"They will."
"They won't."
"Ilya."
"They won't."
Shane looked at him helplessly.
"I fell in love with my rival."
A smile.
Small.
Soft.
Fond.
"Yeah."
"I'm carrying his baby."
The smile somehow grew.
"Yeah."
"This is objectively ridiculous."
"I know."
"I sound insane."
"You sound happy."
That shut him up.
Immediately.
Because that wasn't the answer he'd expected.
Not even close.
Ilya shifted closer.
Close enough that their knees touched.
Close enough that Shane could feel the warmth of him.
The certainty of him.
The home of him.
"You sound terrified," Ilya said softly.
"Correct."
"You sound overwhelmed."
"Very."
"You sound like somebody whose entire life changed in six weeks."
Shane laughed weakly.
"Also correct."
A hand found his.
Warm.
Steady.
Familiar.
"But you don't sound insane."
The words settled somewhere deep inside his chest.
Somewhere vulnerable.
Somewhere tender.
Ilya squeezed his fingers.
"You sound like somebody who's in love."
And damn him.
Damn him.
Because suddenly Shane's eyes stung.
And suddenly his throat felt tight.
And suddenly he hated how much he needed this man.
"I hate when you're nice."
"I know."
"It makes arguing harder."
"I know."
"It feels manipulative."
A grin appeared.
"There he is."
Shane rolled his eyes.
Then immediately leaned into him.
Which ruined the effect somewhat.
Neither of them mentioned it.
For a while, they sat there in comfortable silence.
Then—
"We're still not telling them."
Ilya burst out laughing.
"I was wondering how long that would last."
"I'm serious."
"You cried because a sandwich fell apart."
"It was a really good sandwich."
"You are not surviving nine months of secrecy."
Shane considered this.
Unfortunately.
He had a point.
Which was irritating.
Because Ilya having a point was one of Shane's least favourite things.
Right after morning sickness.
And overcooked eggs.
For a few minutes, neither of them spoke.
The porch swing continued its slow rhythm.
The lake sparkled.
The birds sang.
The entire world carried on as if Shane's life wasn't actively collapsing around him.
Then Ilya reached into his pocket.
And pulled out Shane's phone.
"Oh no."
"Oh yes."
"No."
Ilya held the phone up.
"Call her."
"No."
"Call her."
"No."
"Shane."
"I said no."
Ilya's expression remained completely calm.
Which was worse.
Far worse.
Because that expression usually meant he had already made up his mind.
And once Ilya Razanov made up his mind, moving him was about as easy as moving a mountain.
"If you don't call," Ilya said pleasantly, "I will."
Shane froze.
"You wouldn't."
"I would."
"You don't even have her number."
"I'll find it."
"You cannot just call my mother."
"I absolutely can."
"You absolutely cannot."
"I'll tell her everything."
The blood immediately drained from Shane's face.
"Ilya."
"I'll tell her I'm dating her son."
"Ilya."
"I'll tell her we're having a baby."
"ILYA."
"I'll tell her you're refusing to cooperate."
Shane looked genuinely horrified.
Ilya looked delighted.
The traitor.
The absolute traitor.
For several long seconds they stared at each other.
Then Shane snatched the phone from his hand.
"I hate you."
"I know."
"I'm serious."
"I know."
"I'm never forgiving you."
Ilya smiled.
Softly.
Fondly.
Like he knew that was a lie.
Like he knew Shane would forgive him before dinner.
Unfortunately, he was probably right.
Shane glared one final time before looking down at the phone.
His mother's contact stared back at him.
Mom.
Three letters.
Three innocent little letters.
Three letters capable of causing complete emotional devastation.
Suddenly, the idea of facing a charging defenseman seemed significantly less terrifying.
Beside him, Ilya rested a hand on his knee.
A simple touch.
A silent reminder.
I'm here.
Shane took a deep breath.
Then another.
Then pressed call.
The phone rang once.
Twice.
Three times.
Every ring felt like a countdown to his death.
"Shane?"
His mother's voice immediately made his stomach drop.
"Hi, Mom."
There was a pause.
A very small pause.
The kind only mothers seemed capable of weaponizing.
"Sweetheart."
Uh-oh.
"You sound nervous."
"I'm not nervous."
Another pause.
"Shane."
Damn it.
Across the porch, Ilya immediately buried his face against Shane's shoulder to hide his laughter.
Useless.
Completely useless.
"Mom, are you and Dad free tomorrow afternoon?"
The question came out much faster than intended.
A tactical retreat.
Get to the point before she starts asking questions.
"Tomorrow?" Yuna asked. "I think so. Why?"
"Can I come for lunch?"
"Of course you can come for lunch."
Okay.
Good.
Still alive.
Still breathing.
Everything was fine.
Then came the difficult part.
Shane closed his eyes.
"And can I bring someone with me?"
Silence.
Complete silence.
The kind of silence that made people confess crimes they hadn't committed.
Beside him, Ilya had gone suspiciously still.
Waiting.
Listening.
Being deeply unhelpful.
"Someone?" his mother repeated.
"Yes."
"A friend?"
Shane looked at Ilya.
Ilya looked back.
A smile immediately appeared.
The bastard.
"Not exactly."
Another pause.
Longer this time.
Then—
"Oh."
Shane's soul left his body.
Just completely departed.
Gone.
Vanished.
Ascended.
"Oh?" he repeated weakly.
"Oh."
His mother sounded entirely too calm.
Entirely too pleased.
Entirely too suspicious.
"Well," she said carefully, "your father and I would love to meet this someone."
Shane stared at the lake.
The lake offered no assistance.
No guidance.
No rescue.
Nothing.
"Great."
"Tomorrow?"
"Tomorrow."
"We'll see you then."
A softer pause followed.
The kind that made his chest ache.
"We love you, sweetheart."
And just like that, all the panic quieted.
Just a little.
Not enough.
But a little.
Shane swallowed.
"We love you too."
Then he hung up.
The call lasted less than two minutes.
It felt like it had taken ten years.
For a long moment, he simply stared at the phone in his hands.
Then slowly lowered it.
"I think I just experienced every stage of grief."
Ilya laughed.
Shane dropped his head onto his shoulder.
"Tomorrow is going to kill me."
A kiss landed in his hair.
Warm.
Gentle.
Certain.
"No," Ilya murmured.
One arm wrapped around his waist.
Pulling him closer.
"We'll survive tomorrow."
Shane wasn't entirely convinced.
But for the first time since the conversation had started—
He thought maybe they would.