Chapter Text
The room was steadily becoming more homely by the hour. Ilya and Bowie had worked together to paint the room a warm white colour. Shane had swapped out the light fixture for one which they’d found in the charity shop in town, which was made out of all sorts of different pieces of funky coloured glass. The room had warmed up both aesthetically, and also metaphorically.
By the time Ilya and Shane got to bed, they were both knackered. They’d spent the whole day sanding, painting, hanging up light fixtures, driving to and fro for decorations and coaxing Bowie into not being shy about their desires.
They’d decided to hold off on baby supplies just yet, as they wanted to finish Bowie’s own bedroom first, and then they could do up the remaining guest bedroom and turn it into a nursery.
“Pfff.”
Shane sank into bed next to Ilya, freshly showered and reeling slightly at the long day. It was the first night with someone else in the house. Knowing that respectively, and coming to the realisation after a long day were two very different things.
“Long day. Is it not sad we cannot fuck?”
“Ilya,” Shane cast a worried glance at the door.
“They cannot hear us, Shanya. Good wall proofing, yes?”
“Ilya. We are not having sex tonight.”
“Hey! I did not say that. I was joking, любимый. I would not make you stress like that on first night our child is here.”
“Our child.” Shane shifts, turning onto his side, in a way that is surprisingly out of character for him. “Oh my god. We have a child.” He sounds the same like the day David had walked in on his son and Ilya Rozanov snogging against the windowpane.
Ilya guffaws, giving Shane a light shove so he lands on his back and crawls on top of him, straddling his hips. “Yes. You have only noticed now?”
“Well, no. Of course not.” A breath is punched out of him as Ilya’s hands slide under his pajama top. “But it just hadn't been properly registered- ah.”
“Registered, he says.” Ilya’s mouth presses against the pulse at his neck. “We have child now. Shane Hollander, second best hockey player, and Ilya Rozanov, best hockey player have a kid! Teenager!”
Shane makes an absent sound of agreement, hands sliding up Ilya’s sides before pausing as he pulls his head backwards. He has to fight against the resistance of the pillow, to be able to look at Ilya without going crosseyed. “You’re distracting me.”
“Am I?” Ilya presses forward, their pelvises meeting for a split sparking second. “Funny that.”
Shane turns his head away, pressing his hand against Ilya’s chest to stop him. “Not tonight, Ilya.” His tone goes firm. Ilya can almost see him with his glasses on with nothing but his imagination. He sighs, flopping down on top of Shane. “Fine. Booooring Hollander.”
“Boring, sure. About to traumatise the child we’ve had within our care for no less than 12 hours? Hard no.”
“I know what else could be hard,”
Shane slapped Ilya’s arm, glaring at him.
The next week found them in a weird awkward stand off at the best of times, and outright miscommunication at the worst. Bowie didn’t really seem to know what to do with themselves. The care home had been trying to organise some form of education at least until the baby came, but it had been hard. Finding a school or institution which wanted to support a pregnant thirteen year old was unsurprisingly difficult, but no less frustrating. Ilya had suggested some form of homeschool or alternative education, which had landed no better than the initial meeting in the care home had. That being, a slammed door.
So, no mainstream schools wanted to take Bowie as a pupil, and homeschool or alternative education had not been taken on board either. Which left them with a bit of a grey area. Legally they had to ensure that Bowie was receiving some form of an education, but there were evidently not many options. They’d decided to give it at least another week before mentioning it again. In the meanwhile, with Bowie’s leadership, the week found Ilya and Shane spending their offseason picking out nursery colours, looking at furniture and fending off nasty looks.
“How about this table? It’s organised. And it’s got edges to prevent the baby from rolling off.”
Bowie turned to look at the changing table which Shane was standing next to. Their nose scrunched up. “It’s… a little ugly.”
“It’s functional.”
“Functionally ugly. Fugly.”
“Right. Okay. Not that one then.”
By the time they got home, Bowie had disappeared into their bedroom. Ilya and Shane were left downstairs bringing in the changing dresser from the car boot. They propped it up against the wall in the hallway and then settled down on the sofa together, Ilya going down with a groan. Shane huffs softly, reaching out for his hand. “A lot, huh?”
“Fuck. A lot.”
They met each other's eyes. Shane gave a bemused smile, “This is our life now. We have a teenager. And a baby on the way.”
“You said that last night as well, Shanya.”
Shane punches his shoulder. “Shut up, asshole.”
“It is only truth.” Ilya leans over, fishing between the sofa cushions for the TV remote. His hand skims Shane’s thigh. The stairs creak, and Ilya retracts his hand as though he’s been scolded. It’s unlike him. Shane can read the caution on his face. He knows Ilya is scared of making a bad impression on Bowie, or at worst, triggering them.
Their file had been hefty. Too many horrible things that had occurred within their home that had left them not only mentally scarred, but also physically. The evening where Shane and Ilya had settled down together around the kitchen counter with the file spread between them had been a heavy one. It had been a hard pill to swallow, that a child of that age could experience such complex, traumatic events. Both of them were desperate to make Bowie feel at home. Especially as they had adopted them so fast without really even becoming familiar with one another. It was unusual for an adoption to be approved that fast, but as they had already been through all the checks and processes, and Paula had believed Bowie would sincerely benefit from a stable home to have the baby in, it had been sorted within no more than a month.
It helped that they were rich too.
Footsteps pad into the living room. Bowie lingers just out of eye sight and Ilya turns his body to face them. There is a lingering silence until they seem to gather the courage.
“Can we talk?”
Shane turns his head, “of course, bud.”
“I… can I ask you something? You’ve read my file, I guess?”
Ilya’s eyes search theirs. “Yes.” He confirms. “Why?”
“I don’t know what’s in there. I don’t know how much you know. I don’t- don’t tell me. I don’t want to hear it out loud. But there is something important you have to know. And I don’t know if you know. But I feel sick saying it out loud. I’ve never said it out loud. I don’t know if I can say it out loud.”
Shane brings his hand up to pick at his eyelashes. Bowie looks away and brushes at their own eyelashes.
“I- do you know… how I got pregnant?”
Ilya’s eyes sparkle with a split second of mirth. A joke jumps to the tip of his tongue but he swallows it down the moment he thinks it through.
Shane sees Ilya’s restraint and his own shoulders settle slightly. “No. We know you’re six months pregnant. We know you’ve had limited check ups. Paula told us you refused to go.”
“Yeah. There’s a reason for that.”
Ilya and Shane stay quiet, as an encouragement to continue.
“I…-” They swallow audibly. Their eyes are cast down, and they really look like they’re two seconds away from disappearing back upstairs. “It’s… a thing. It happened… when I was 12. And, I wasn’t… I didn’t choose to. I wasn’t irresponsible. It wasn’t my choice.
“I’ve refused to get a check up because I’m scared they’ll find out.” Their voice has dropped to a whisper over the span of the last minute.
They shake their head, standing up abruptly. Their arms wrap around the round of their stomach. A shade of green in the face is all that shows as warning before the vomit splatters at their feet. Bowie sinks through their knees, body trembling under the force of the retching. Ilya jumps up with a curse, sinking through his own knees to cradle their body from behind to stop them from faceplanting directly into the floor. Somewhere distantly Bowie registers movements, which they assume to be Shane. They’re coaxed slightly to the right, and a bowl appears beneath them. While they continue to retch, a hand, to the best of its ability, mops up the vomit which had landed not only on the hardwood floor, but on the rug.
Throwing up lasts a long minute, before they’re able to sit back on their heels without worrying they’ll spew everywhere again. “Fuck. I’m sorry.”
Ilya takes the offered napkin from Shane, who himself looks just a little green in the face now. He gently wipes at Bowie’s face, removing any residue. He casts it into the vomit filled bucket. “No sorries,” Ilya’s voice rumbles through their body. “Are you okay?”
His fingers tuck a stray strand of short hair behind their ears, and their eyes flicker shut, momentarily lulled into the comfort of it. Their head tips into the affection, before their body goes rigid and they pull away. Coming up to their feet suddenly provides another nauseous bout, and they sway slightly. Shane rests a hand on their shoulder and they pull away, stumbling away from the crime scene and up the stairs.
In their momentary stupor, neither of them do anything until the muffled sobs from upstairs seep through the ceiling. Ilya starts, but Shane holds him back with a hand to his arm. “Let me.”
It isn’t until he can hear Shane talking to them through the bathroom door that he realises Shane only went up to avoid having to clean up the vomit. He’s secretly enamoured by the cheeky manoeuvre. Even in a relatively grave situation the competition between them was ever existent
“Bowie, can I come in?”
There’s no answer except for the dampened sounds of crying. Shane can almost see them pressing their hands over their mouth. “Hey, kid. Hey, hey.” Shane leans against the doorframe, letting his head rest against the door itself. “It’s okay. You’re okay. You don’t have to tell us anything. We won’t ask. We won’t make you do anything you don’t want to, okay?”
The sobs soften ever so slightly.
Shane takes it as encouragement. “There we go. It’s okay. I promise. I’m here. You don’t have to do anything. You’re okay here. You’re safe. I’m here.”
It takes a little while of continuous coaxing before the bathroom door unlocks with a soft sound. Shane takes a breath, holding it and then pushing it out. The door pulls open, revealing Bowie looking downtrodden and pink faced.
It’s so unlike him, but he parts his arms as a silent invitation. They have a stand off which lasts about twelve seconds and then Bowie is ducking into his arms with a wounded sound. Shane can feel their round stomach against his own. It makes him tilt his hips backwards a little to give them more space to shuffle closer. Their head tucks under his chin, his arms wrapping around them.
“You’re okay,” he murmurs.
Bowie sniffles, shifting slightly to tuck their face against his collarbone. “I’m sorry,”
“You have nothing to be sorry for.”
Later that same evening Bowie is found wrapped up in a warm blanket on the sofa. Ilya sits beside them, occasionally injecting his opinions as they watch the movie. Shane is on Ilya’s other side, not really following the movie. He’s got his screen turned away slightly.
Ilya peers subtly over his shoulder throughout the evening.
‘Teen pregnancy’
‘How to support a pregnant thirteen year old’
‘The best way to help a teen parent’
And eventually, a whole text thread with Jackie about what giving birth was like, and how Shane and Ilya could support someone who was pregnant, without giving away anything that wasn’t theirs to tell.
Oh, how Ilya loved his husband.