Chapter Text
From the moment Ilya woke up, he knew it wouldn’t be a good day.
His head pounded as he got out of bed, and he felt too tired and heavy to do anything. He glanced to the side, looking for his husband, but found only a cold space where he should have been. Ilya really just wanted to go back to bed, cuddle with Shane for the rest of the day, but the nagging voice in his head wouldn’t let him.
Ilya sighed as he dressed in a dark blue hoodie he had borrowed from Shane, the fabric infused with the scent of the expensive detergent Shane loved so much. Exiting the bedroom, Ilya slowly walked down the stairs.
Shane’s voice drifted from the garden — soft, ordinary. Ilya couldn’t care. Not today. Ilya entered the living room and collapsed onto his husband with a loud whine. “Hi, sleepy boy,” Shane muttered softly, rubbing a hand up and down Ilya’s backside. “Are you feeling okay? You were sleeping for a while.”
Ilya nodded against Shane's neck, adjusting himself to sit in Shane's lap. “You still wanna go to practice? You don’t have to if you don’t want to.” Shane asked carefully; his tone was full of concern.
Ilya thought for a minute; now he really didn’t want to go. But the team needs work; their season is starting soon, and they don’t look as good as they probably should. “No, it's fine. I will go.” Ilya declared, half regretting the words as soon as they left his mouth.
“You sure? I could always tell Troy to take care of the practice today,” Shane’s voice dipped, careful. “I think you might need to drop today—which isn’t a bad thing, of course. But maybe we—”
“No. Shane, I do not need to do anything; I feel fine.” Lie. “You do not need to treat me like a small child; I am a grown man.” He hissed, pulling his head away from Shane’s neck to face him.
Shane looked at him with wide eyes, speaking softer than before. “Okay. Sorry, honey.”
There was no sarcasm, no snarkiness in his voice; just comfort and softness. Shane gently brought Ilya’s head back to his neck where it had been before, tenderly placing a soft kiss on his shoulder. He scratched Ilya’s messy, unbrushed curls, still frizzy from sleeping. Tension leaked out of Ilya as he deflated into Shane.
“Not baby…” Ilya said, snuggling further into Shane.
Shane just smiled warmly, not saying anything. Nothing needed to be said.
Ilya felt so hazy; so awful and foggy. He definitely needed to drop, and he knew it too; but that didn’t mean he was going to. At least not willingly.
They stayed like that for a while, wrapped in each other’s warmth as the sun lit up the room. Shane’s hands never left Ilya’s hair, scratching softly as Ilya practically purred under his touch. As the pair were intertwined, the sharp ring of Shane’s phone cut through the quiet. He quickly turned it off, carefully placing Ilya off his lap as he whined.
“That’s the timer for practice. Come on, Ilya, let’s go,” Shane said, no longer using the extra sweet voice like he was before. Ilya loved that voice as much as he loved hockey, but would never admit that out loud.
Ilya groaned dramatically, “Ugh, you are so boring. 5 more minutes? Pleaseee?”
“Nope, come on—hey, wait, you haven't even gotten ready, have you? Oh my god, Ilya, get ready! Hurry!” Shane said, giving Ilya’s bottom a quick, harmless smack.
“I like it when you are bossy like this, Mr. Hollander.” Ilya flirted, using a horrible seductive voice while making kissing noises.
“That’s Mr. Hollander-Rozanov to you. Now go get ready—quickly—or I’m leaving you here!”
The sounds of the stairs creaking under Ilya’s weight filled the house. Shane smiled softly, shouldered his duffel packed with hockey gear, and crossed the porch to the waiting car. After stowing his duffel bag in the back, he climbed into the driver’s seat and thumbed through a few pending emails on his phone.
Surprisingly, Ilya was ready in under three minutes; he climbed into the passenger seat beside Shane, duffel slung over one shoulder. God, I really hope we aren’t late to practice, he thought, glancing at the dashboard clock.
“That was quick; I'm impressed,” Shane said, wasting no time as he started the car and drove out of their long driveway.
“Yes, I know I am amazing and wonderful.” Ilya grinned, although he still didn’t feel good.
His mind had gotten the familiar misty fog, like it usually did before regressing—but he couldn’t drop—not until after practice, at least. He could shove it down as he did so many times before. It would only be a few hours.
Shane chuckled at Ilya’s comment. “Shut up, you asshole.”
Ilya made a dramatic gasp. “Mr. Hollender-Ronaov, you cannot say such mean things to such a kind soul like myself!”
“Kind soul?” Shane snorted. “Whatever you say.”
The rest of the trip was the same: quiet, playful jokes that made each other laugh out loud. It was funny, regular; practically routine at this point. Ilya would laugh, but he didn’t think anything that Shane said was funny—and it wasn’t that Shane was unfunny. (Although that is debatable) Ilya’s mind just wasn’t working; everything was fuzzy and covered in a thick layer of fog.
He continued talking and laughing, but his mind couldn’t stop repeating the same thing: You’re going to regress, you’re going to regress, you’re going to regress…
________________________________________
When the two finally arrived at the rink, Ilya managed to feel somehow worse. Like a lot worse.
Shane and Ilya walked into the locker room, which was anxiously crowded with their teammates. Normally, the two were the first ones here as captains, but because of Ilya’s mishap, they arrived much later than intended. Everything was so loud and fuzzy—why didn’t he just stay home with Shane? That was a much better idea than going to practice—he should have listened to Shane.
He could see everyone’s mouths moving, but he couldn’t hear anything other than white noise and muffled sounds. He tried to grab Shane’s hand, needing something to ground him, but Shane pulled it away to do handshakes with the team. Ilya’s eyebrows furrowed at the sight. Why is Papa not paying attention to me? He thought to himself.
Wait—Shane. Shane, not Papa; Shane, not Papa. Fuck.
The loud voice of one of his teammates reeled him back to the present. “Why were you guys late? You both are like, never late.”
Shane sighed dramatically, rolling his eyes playfully. “Well, my husband here thinks that he can just snuggle with me all day and not have to go anywhere.” Shane continued, “He was sooo clingy this morning, you guys—I had to practically rip him off of me.”
Laughter erupted; loud cackles and giggles filled the room. Ilya’s cheeks flushed bright red with embarrassment. Shane was obviously joking, of course, but in Ilya’s mindset it truly didn’t feel like he was. Everything was already too much, and Shane teasing him—right here, in front of everyone—felt like a sting he couldn’t shake.
“Is not true; Shane is a liar,” Ilya said quickly, the words feeling familiar across his tongue. “Russians do not do this.”
Loud giggles from teammates continued as Ilya was telling a story about how “Russians couldn’t physically cry.” But something shifted; Shane saw small details within him that hinted at something else. Like the way he took a moment before replying or the small squeak in his voice that no one would notice except Shane.
As he looked at his husband in front of him—joking and laughing—he felt a strong feeling of knowing. It was hard to explain, but it was almost like he knew Ilya was hiding something.
It made him worry; an ache in his chest that felt like a heavy stone.
“Okay, okay, let’s get started, people. 25 warm-up laps for everyone while Ilya and I get ready.” Shane said, ignoring the loud groans from their team as they left the locker room.
“Ilya?”
Ilya paused putting on his pants, turning to Shane with a nervous, guilty look. “Yes?”
“Are you doing okay? You really look like you need to drop.” Shane said, using his extra-sweet voice that Ilya loved so much. But this time it made him shiver. “We can always get Troy to cover practice if you need.”
Ilya wanted to lie—say that he was fine and that Shane needed to stop trying to guilt him into regressing. But a small side of him thought otherwise. “Um.” He took a breath. “Yes, I feel a tiny bit little—but I can make it through practice. I want to.”
Shane frowned slightly. “You know how I feel about you being little on ice, Ilya.”
“No—Shane, I feel a little bit little,” Lie. “Please just let me do practice—I will tell you if I need to drop, yes?”
Shane took a deep breath, thinking a bit before he spoke, “Okay. But you have to tell me if you’re feeling like you're going to regress, okay?”
“Yes, deal.”
Clothes rustling filled the room. Shane’s stomach twisted; this wasn’t a good idea. Why did he say yes? Ilya could get hurt, or hurt someone else. But another part of Shane knew that probably wouldn’t happen. His husband told him he felt fine for practice—and he wouldn’t lie to him.
Right?
____________________________________
When Shane and Ilya stepped into the rink, they were greeted with the ambient loud sounds of heavy breathing and the hum of the fans above them. It was classic; normal. “Look who finally came back,” Troy said over the sound of teammates.
“You guys must have been busy.” Luca chirped in between breaths.
“Haha. That’s 10 extra laps for you, Luca.” Shane continued, “We’re going to start with some basic shooting drills—everyone forms a line.”
The sound of metal skates clinking on ice echoed through the arena as the rest of the team skated into line (except Shane and Ilya, who stood at opposite poles of the goal, ready to give pointers). Ilya felt worse. He was sweating profusely under layers of clothes, despite the cold air and the fact that he wasn't doing anything besides standing.
He must have looked worse because Shane gave him one of those looks full of so much pity it was overwhelming. Ilya looked away from Shane’s expression, guilt overtaking him like a tidal wave, ignoring the little side inside of him begging to sit down and have a break.
Teammate after teammate took shots on goal, their sticks slapped against the ice with each one. The sound made Ilya tense, unwanted memories flooding back to his childhood, when his father would slap the hockey stick against the ice on purpose to scare him. Or as a warning sign if he was acting up.
Ilya shook his aching head, feeling sick as he did so. Standing made him dizzy; nausea stirred in his stomach. He clutched his stomach in pain, avoiding Shane and his teammates' worried glances.
“Everything okay, Rozy?” Wyatt asked with a concerned frown.
If anyone wasn’t already looking at Ilya, they were now. He felt weird with all the eyes on him, almost shy in a way that he never felt before—especially not with his teammates. He loved attention, so why did it feel so sickening for him this time?
Ilya nodded, his mind scrambling to find something to reply with. “Yes. Sorry.”
“No need to apologize; you just look…ill? Maybe you should sit down?”
It was very clear Wyatt was trying to help—he was being caring in a way that felt foreign to Ilya. Maybe that's why it scared him.
“Wyatt. I am not a baby; I am a full-grown man. I think I know when I need to sit down,” he growled, his cheeks pink from embarrassment or shame. Or both. “Leave me alone—I do not need this right now.”
Wyatt looked back at him, his eyebrows furrowed in a mix of worry and pity. The rest of the team gave him pitying looks as well; a thick, awkward tension filled the room. Ilya felt hot and ashamed; why would he say something like that? To his teammate, nonetheless. Now Wyatt and the team are going to hate you, you’re so weak you can’t even do the first drill, and you aren’t even do—
“Ilya, go sit down,” Shane said, with that sly tint of coldness in his voice whenever he was being serious.
“No!” Ilya whined, his mind plummeting into the fog that he tried so desperately to ignore. “No! No! No!”
Shane cringed at the sight of his husband very obviously slipping in front of the team. “Ilya Hollander-Rozanov. You and I are going to go sit down while Troy continues this drill. You are also going to say sorry to Wyatt right now.”
Ilya’s soft blue eyes filled with tears as he sat down on the ice, flailing his arms and legs as he sobbed loudly. The rest of the team could only look in horror and amusement as their captain started having a temper tantrum in the middle of practice. Shane didn’t know what to do—what was he supposed to do? Ilya had never had a tantrum before. (At least being little)
The sobbing and crying only got louder; noisy, broken sounds poured out of Ilya. Surprisingly, the team was silent. Like, scary silent. Wyatt looked practically terrified, a big guilty feeling washing over him as he realized he caused this.
The temper tantrum continued for about 3 minutes, with everyone silent except Ilya, who was screaming and sobbing his eyes out. Shane could only stare helplessly at Ilya, unsure what to do. The team looked equally helpless; some tried to come closer to Ilya but stopped when he started to cry louder.
Finally, Ilya seemed to calm down. He looked up at Shane with tear-stained cheeks and big doe eyes; his lip pouted sadly. “Papa?” he whimpered in Russian.
Shane's shoulders tensed, embarrassment washing over him as the team turned to look at him. Even though the word was in Russian, the meaning was clear. Papa. Shane’s cheeks turned bright red; he wanted to leave the rink right then and there and never come back. But he didn’t. Instead, he slowly skated to Ilya and picked him up.
Ilya must have been surprised, because he started bawling once again. Comfort after being bad never happened in his childhood; it was overwhelming. Tears ran down his face as he clung to Shane, who was whispering sweet, comforting words in his ear. The rest of the team stayed still, waiting for Shane—or anyone—to talk.
Once Ilya’s cries died down to soft sniffles, Shane started to speak. “I’m going to go home with this one. Troy, can you take care of practice, please?”
What? No explanation for what the hell just happened? Troy, alongside many other teammates, thought to themselves. Troy cleared his throat. “Yeah, sure, man.”
“Thank you.”
Before anyone knew it, Shane walked back into the locker room with Ilya cradled in his arms, still sniffling and trembling against his chest.
Everyone was quiet, processing what just happened. The captain—the scary, mean Russian captain—had thrown a full-blown temper tantrum during practice, called his husband Papa, and then had to be carried out by Shane.
Luca was the first one to speak over the thick air, “What the fuck just happened?”
____________________________
Closing the locker room door behind them, Shane immediately started to panic. Holy fucking shit, everyone just saw that. Oh my god, Ilya and I are never going to play hockey again—we are going to get kicked out of the league, and oh my god, we are going to have to find new jobs, start a new life in a different country, and oh my fuck this is so ba—
Ilya whimpered in Shane’s arms, somehow feeling Shane even when he was in headspace. Shane gently placed Ilya on the bench, crouching down on the floor to start undressing him. “What happened to not needing to drop, hm?” Shane said, trying to send a jolt of humor into the air.
He looked at Shane, tilting his head in confusion like a puppy. All the words sounded the same—a mindless noise that made no sense. He felt droopy and almost drunk in a way that he couldn’t quite explain. He had no thoughts, just hushed static that rang through his head.
Shane sighed, knowing that the rest of the day would be the same; no words. After a bad drop, Ilya would usually become non-verbal, and on the rare occasion he did say something, it would be in Russian and almost always competently incomprehensible.
Once Ilya was fully undressed, Shane started to undress himself from his hockey gear as he definitely wasn’t going back to practice now. Ilya sat on the bench in his boxers, looking down. Shane glanced at him, his heart aching, knowing that Ilya was probably expecting a punishment for his behavior.
Being bad never happened when he was little; the word ‘punishment’ was unknown. When he was a little boy, he got punished for everything. His father was not forgiving—quite the opposite. Ilya was always getting screamed at or beaten for something, and if Ilya wasn’t, it was his mom.
When the pair first tried age regression, Ilya asked about punishments almost immediately. Shane was horrified, saying repeatedly that he wouldn’t punish him at all. Which, in hindsight, probably wasn't the best reply, but in that moment, Shane meant every word. And he still does.
“Ilya?” Shane spoke softly.
Ilya looked up at Shane but didn’t reply; his cheeks were still damp. It hurt Shane so much; his own eyes misted at the sight. “Ilya, you're not in trouble.” He continued, brushing Ilya’s cheek lovingly. “Let’s get changed, then go home and relax. Does that sound okay, baby?”
No reply. Which technically wasn’t a no.
The tiles on the locker room floor squeaked under Shane’s feet as he moved, grabbing Ilya’s emergency diaper bag he always packed in case something like this ever happened. He took a pair of soft cotton shorts, a pull-up (which was not going to be fun for either of them to put on Ilya), and a pacifier. He brought the 3 items back to his husband, slipping the pacifier into his mouth.
“Papa is gonna change you, okay, sweetheart?” Shane said, moving Ilya so he was lying on the bench.
The bench felt cold on Ilya’s skin; he squirmed, and a loud whine bubbled in his throat. “Shh, shh, shh. I know, baby. It’s so cold, huh? Papa is going to do a super-duper fast change.”
True to his word, the change was pretty quick (Although it was still longer than Ilya would have preferred, given his whimpers and cries). Shane brought Ilya into his arms, swooping him up in an easy motion as if he wasn’t 200 pounds of pure muscle. He then gently bounced Ilya in his arms, a familiar motion his mom used to do for him when he was a kid.
The loud sounds of hockey sticks hitting the ice and the occasional chatter from teammates could be heard from inside the locker room. Shane could only imagine what they were saying. He grabbed both his and Ilya’s duffel bags and made his way to the door, still juggling Ilya in his arms. The walk to the parking lot was challenging, but he managed thanks to his experience as a professional athlete.
Once Shane opened the car door, he groaned at the lack of Ilya’s special car seat for when he was in headspace. Although they had only used it a few times, Shane found comfort in knowing that Ilya was safe in the backseat. However, little Ilya did not like it at all, which is why Shane wasn’t very strict about using it unless he was feeling very young. When Ilya is in headspace, Shane must be in his sight at all times, and that doesn’t happen when he is using the car seat. Hence why he doesn't like it.
Shane placed the bags in the truck before gently putting Ilya in the front seat. Ilya seemed tired from his tantrum, fast asleep in his partner's arms as he was placed in the front seat. Shane couldn’t help but smile; the sight in front of him made his heart melt a little.
He crossed to the driver’s side and settled into the leather seat before starting the engine with a loud grumble. Shane sighed and looked up at the car ceiling, his thoughts gnawing at him wildly.
“Fuck. This is bad.”