Chapter Text
The apartment felt different the second the door closed behind Ilya. Shane hated that he noticed it so quickly.
It wasn’t like Ilya had been there long enough to leave some kind of imprint behind. Less than an hour ago, Shane hadn’t even known he was coming. Before that, he’d spent weeks convincing himself that there was no reason for Ilya to know about any of this because whatever existed between them had never been built to survive something as big and ugly as cancer. Casual arrangements didn’t involve chemotherapy, surgeries, hospital rooms, or conversations about dying fathers.
And yet, as Shane stared at the closed front door, all he could think about was how much quieter the apartment suddenly seemed without him in it. That realization irritated him enough that he immediately looked away.
His mother had already returned to the kitchen. Shane could hear the faint clink of ceramic as she moved Ilya’s mug toward the sink, her movements deliberately unhurried in a way that told Shane she was waiting for him to say something. Yuna Hollander had always been good at that. She could fill an entire room with pressure without saying a single word, then act surprised when the person trapped inside it finally cracked.
Shane rubbed both hands over his face before forcing himself to push away from the wall near the hallway. His leg protested immediately, a deep ache radiating through his thigh as he limped back toward the couch. He ignored it as best he could, lowering himself carefully and hoping his mother hadn’t noticed the way his jaw clenched when he bent his knee.
Of course she noticed. She simply didn’t say anything. That somehow made everything worse.
“You called him,” Shane finally said, keeping his eyes fixed on the coffee table in front of him. His voice sounded flatter than he felt, which was probably for the best because he had absolutely no interest in letting his mother hear the knot of panic underneath the accusation.
There was a short pause from the kitchen before Yuna answered. “Yes, I did.”
Shane’s head snapped up.
He had expected at least some attempt at justification. Maybe an explanation about how worried she’d been or some carefully worded argument about how Ilya had called fourteen times and therefore she’d assumed he had a right to know something was wrong. What he hadn’t expected was for his mother to admit it without hesitation.
“You went through my phone,” Shane accused, his eyebrows drawing together as he watched her rinse out the mug like they were discussing something as inconsequential as whether she had moved his keys.
Yuna turned off the faucet and dried her hands on a towel before finally looking at him. “Your phone was sitting on the table going off every few minutes. I picked it up because you refused to.”
“That doesn’t mean you get to steal numbers out of it.”
“I didn’t steal anything.” His mother leaned back against the kitchen counter and crossed her arms. “I wrote down the number of someone who had called my son fourteen times in less than an hour.”
Shane let out a short, humorless laugh and looked away again. “That makes it so much better.”
He could feel the argument building inside him, but even as the anger sharpened, Shane knew exactly how misplaced most of it was.
His mother had crossed a line. There was no denying that, and under normal circumstances Shane would have been perfectly justified in being pissed about it. But that wasn’t why his chest felt tight. It wasn’t why he kept glancing toward the front door like some pathetic part of him expected Ilya to come back even after Shane had practically ordered him away.
The real problem was that his mother had done something Shane had wanted to do himself and had been too afraid to follow through on. He had wanted Ilya to know. Worse, he had wanted Ilya to come.
Shane had thought about calling him almost constantly since the diagnosis, no matter how many times he convinced himself it would be unfair. The urge had followed him through doctor’s appointments, sleepless nights, conversations with his parents, and every quiet moment where his thoughts became too loud to ignore. He’d wanted to hear Ilya’s voice. He’d wanted to tell him everything. He’d wanted, with an intensity that scared him more than he cared to admit, for Ilya to somehow make all of this feel less impossible.
Then Ilya actually showed up and Shane had discovered something infinitely more dangerous.
He could get used to having him there.
“I didn’t want him involved in this,” Shane said, because that sounded better than the truth.
Yuna’s expression didn’t change, but Shane knew his mother well enough to recognize the skepticism in the slight tilt of her head. “Then why did you let him in?”
“You let him in.”
“I asked whether you wanted me to send him away.”
Shane’s jaw tightened. “I wasn’t exactly in the best condition to make decisions.”
“You seemed perfectly capable of telling me you didn’t want visitors five seconds earlier.”
He glared at her. Yuna simply raised an eyebrow. This was exactly why Shane was arguing with her.
He could snap at his mother without worrying that she would take it personally. He could be unreasonable, defensive, and difficult, and Yuna would still be there tomorrow morning telling him to drink more water and reminding him what time his next appointment was. She wouldn’t disappear because he had become too much work. She wouldn’t decide that maybe loving him wasn’t worth this amount of trouble.
Ilya could.
The thought hit hard enough that Shane’s stomach twisted, though he wasn’t sure whether the nausea had anything to do with the chemotherapy anymore. He hated himself for thinking that way.
Ilya had just stood in this apartment and told Shane things he had apparently carried alone since he was twelve years old. He had changed his flight rather than go home to Russia. He had looked Shane directly in the eyes and told him that he loved him, then promised that he wasn’t leaving Montreal even after Shane had done everything short of physically shoving him out the door.
And somehow Shane’s first instinct was still to prepare for the moment Ilya changed his mind. That was why relying on him was dangerous.
It had nothing to do with whether Ilya could be trusted. Shane was starting to realize, with increasing discomfort, that Ilya might be one of the few people he trusted too much. If Shane let himself depend on him now, if he allowed Ilya to become the person he called after treatments or the person sitting beside him during appointments or the person he reached for when the fear became impossible to swallow down, there would be no easy way to go backward later.
There would be no casual anymore. There probably hadn’t been for years. Shane pressed his palms against his thighs and forced himself to focus on his mother instead. Being angry with her was easier than thinking about any of that.
“You didn’t have the right to make that decision for me,” he said, his tone quieter now but no less pointed. “You don’t know what things are like between me and Ilya.”
Yuna studied him for a long moment before she slowly pushed away from the counter. She walked into the living room but stopped several feet from the couch, giving Shane enough space that it didn’t feel like she was hovering.
“No,” she agreed. “I don’t.”
Something about how easily she admitted it caught Shane off guard. He hadn’t expected her to be so honest and forthcoming. But, he really shouldn’t have been that surprised, she is the Yuna Hollander after all. She’s nothing if not all-knowing and brutally honest.
His mother folded her arms again, her gaze staying firmly on him. “But I know what you looked like when I asked who Lily was yesterday.”
Shane immediately felt heat rise into his face. “Mom.”
“And I know what you looked like when I told you Ilya was standing outside.”
“That doesn’t mean anything.”
Yuna’s mouth twitched slightly, though there was absolutely nothing amused in her expression. “You keep saying that about things that very clearly mean something.”
Shane looked away before she could read too much in his face.
He was suddenly exhausted. Not physically, although that was there too. His body felt heavier than it had before treatment, like someone had replaced his bones with concrete while he wasn’t looking. But this was different. Shane was tired of explaining himself. Tired of people asking what he needed when he didn’t have a fucking clue. Tired of wanting things he had spent years telling himself he wasn’t allowed to want.
Most of all, he was tired of the fact that his mother seemed one question away from forcing him to admit something he wasn’t ready to put into words again.
“You should’ve stayed out of it,” Shane muttered, sinking farther into the couch as he avoided her gaze.
His mother was quiet for several seconds before responding. When she did, her voice had softened slightly without becoming gentle enough to feel like pity.
“Maybe I should have.”
Shane glanced back toward her.
Yuna took another step closer, but she still didn’t sit beside him. “But you weren’t going to call him.”
The words landed harder than Shane expected.
He swallowed, irritation flaring again because it was easier than acknowledging the ache underneath it. “You don’t know that.”
His mother’s eyes narrowed just slightly, “Then tell me I’m wrong.”
Shane opened his mouth. Nothing came out. His anger for her shifted slightly at the realization that she was right. He wouldn’t have called him. That would’ve been something much too brave for Shane. He closed his mouth again and sighed.
Yuna gave a smirk, “That’s what I thought. I know you don’t want to admit it right now, but I did you a favor that you’ll someday soon be grateful for. The road ahead is going to be long, exhausting, and emotionally taxing. You’re going to need him.”
Shane’s face tightened at the certainty in her voice. He hated the way she said it, like Ilya’s place in all of this had already been decided for him, even if a part of Shane suspected that was only because the idea sounded far too appealing.
“I don’t need him,” Shane muttered, pushing his hands against the couch cushions as he carefully got to his feet. His leg immediately protested the movement and a wave of nausea rolled through him hard enough that he had to pause before straightening completely. “I managed perfectly fine before he showed up.”
His mother’s expression shifted, the earlier smirk disappearing as she watched him steady himself. She didn’t move to help, which Shane appreciated more than he was willing to say. “Needing someone doesn’t mean you’re incapable of surviving without them, Shane.”
He looked at her then, annoyed by how easily she seemed to understand the distinction he had spent years pretending didn’t exist.
“That sounds like something you rehearsed.”
“I raised you. I’ve had plenty of time to prepare,” this time his mom’s voice was soft and gentle.
Despite himself, Shane almost smiled. The expression never fully formed before another unpleasant twist in his stomach killed whatever amusement he might have found in the exchange.
He was tired. More than tired, really. His entire body felt wrung out, and the adrenaline that had carried him through Ilya’s unexpected arrival and everything that followed was beginning to disappear. All Shane wanted now was his bed, several uninterrupted hours of sleep, and preferably an entirely new brain that wasn’t going to spend that sleep replaying the words I think I am in love with you too over and over again.
“I’m going upstairs,” Shane finally said, rubbing one hand absently over his stomach as he turned toward the staircase. “If I keep talking to you, I’m probably going to say something I regret.”
She gave him a knowing look but, thankfully, didn’t take the bait. “Then go rest.”
Shane took a few careful steps before stopping near the bottom of the stairs. He didn’t turn around when he spoke again.
“And don’t call him again.”
There was enough silence behind him that Shane already knew his mother was choosing her response carefully.
“I won’t,” Yuna finally promised. “The next call should come from you.”
Shane closed his eyes for a second. Of course she had to get the last word.
—
Shane woke the next morning feeling like someone had beaten him with a hockey stick while he slept.
For several minutes, he didn’t move. He lay flat on his back with one arm thrown across his stomach, staring at the ceiling while he took inventory of everything that hurt. His mouth was dry despite the water bottle sitting half-empty on his nightstand, his stomach felt unsettled in a way that made even breathing too deeply seem like a bad idea, and the ache in his leg had settled into something deeper overnight.
The worst part was the exhaustion.
Shane understood being tired. He had played through double overtime games where every muscle in his body screamed for rest. He knew what it felt like to wake up the morning after taking too many hits and wonder how the hell he was supposed to drag himself onto the ice again that night.
This was different. His entire body felt heavy. Not sore. Not overworked. Heavy. Like gravity had somehow increased overnight and nobody had bothered to warn him. Shane closed his eyes again and briefly considered staying exactly where he was. He could call the hospital, explain that yesterday had knocked him on his ass harder than expected, and ask whether they could push the next treatment back.
The thought lasted maybe five seconds.
Then his brain supplied his doctor’s explanation about how important the schedule was, how everything had been carefully planned around attacking the tumor as aggressively as possible before surgery, and Shane immediately hated himself for even considering it.
Cancer had already taken next season away from him.
It wasn’t getting anything else because he decided he was too tired to get out of bed.
With a groan, Shane pushed himself upright. His stomach immediately rolled.
“Fuck.”
He stayed perfectly still, one hand gripping the edge of the mattress while the other pressed firmly against his abdomen. For several long seconds, he breathed through his nose and waited for the nausea to settle enough that he could trust himself to move again. Eventually it did. Barely.
By the time Shane made it downstairs, showered and dressed in the loosest pair of sweatpants he owned, his mother was standing in the kitchen with breakfast laid out in front of her. Nothing elaborate. Plain toast, some fruit, and something that looked suspiciously like oatmeal.
Shane stopped at the sight of it. His stomach responded immediately, “No.”
Yuna looked up from where she was pouring herself coffee. Her gaze traveled slowly over him, lingering on his face long enough that Shane knew he looked every bit as awful as he felt. “You need to eat something before we leave.”
“I'll throw up.”
“Then you’ll throw up.”
Shane frowned at her. “Very motivating.”
His mother gave him a small shrug before setting her mug down. “I could lie and tell you breakfast will magically make you feel better, but I think we’re past that point.”
Despite himself, Shane felt the corner of his mouth twitch. He shuffled toward the table and carefully lowered himself into the chair. The toast looked marginally less offensive than everything else, so he picked up one piece and took a tiny bite. His mother watched him chew.
Shane stared back, “Could you not?”
“I’m not doing anything.”
“You’re watching me eat,” he knew he was on the verge of being unnecessarily unkind, but Shane’s head was starting to pound with an oncoming headache and his stomach had him irritated.
“I’m sitting at my own kitchen table,” Yuna merely picked up her mug and stared Shane down over the top of it, a smirk playing on the edges of her lips.
“This is my kitchen table.”
Yuna took a long sip from her coffee without breaking eye contact. “Then I’m sitting at your kitchen table.”
Shane rolled his eyes and took another bite mostly to prove that he could.
For a few minutes, neither of them spoke. Shane managed half the toast before deciding he had reached the absolute limit of what his stomach would tolerate. When he pushed the plate away, his mother didn’t argue. That alone told Shane how bad he probably looked.
Yuna checked the time on her phone before looking back at him, and Shane immediately recognized the expression that crossed her face. It was too careful. Too neutral. She wanted to say something. Worse, Shane already knew what.
“No,” he muttered before she could open her mouth.
His mother raised an eyebrow. “I didn’t say anything.”
“You were about to,” Shane huffed. He stared at the array of food in front of him. His stomach rolled a bit once more, but it wasn’t enough to force him to take action.
“You’ve apparently developed telepathy overnight.”
“I know you,” Shane gave her a hard stare, daring her to deny it.
Yuna leaned back in her chair and folded her arms loosely across her chest. “Fine. What was I going to say?”
Shane looked down at the untouched oatmeal instead of answering. Ilya was still in Montreal. At least, Shane assumed he was.
He’d spent more time than he cared to admit thinking about that fact after crawling into bed the night before. The Marriott downtown wasn’t far. Shane had even pulled up the hotel on his phone at one point, staring at the little red marker on the map before realizing what the hell he was doing and immediately closing the app. He had Ilya’s number. Ilya had specifically told him to use it. Shane had not.
“You were going to tell me to call him,” Shane finally said, keeping his tone deliberately flat.
His mother didn’t bother pretending she didn’t know who he meant, “I was thinking it might be nice to have someone with you today who isn’t your mother.”
“You’re coming.”
“Yes.”
“So I have someone.”
Yuna studied him for another moment before apparently deciding not to fight that particular battle. “Then maybe Hayden.”
Shane looked up.
His mother continued before he could object. “You said he knows what’s happening. He’s one of your closest friends. If you don’t want to call Ilya, call Hayden and ask him to come sit with you for a while.”
There was no accusation in her voice. That somehow made Shane more defensive, “I don’t need a babysitter.”
“I didn’t say you did.”
“Then why does everyone apparently need to take shifts watching me?”
Yuna sighed and reached for her coffee again. “Because yesterday you spent several hours vomiting into a trashcan, Shane.”
“That doesn't mean I need an audience for it.”
“No, but it might mean having someone around isn’t the worst thing in the world.”
Shane clenched his jaw and looked away.
He knew what she was doing. She was giving him an out. His mother wanted him to call Ilya. Shane could see it every time she looked at him, though he still wasn’t entirely sure what conclusions she had drawn from yesterday. But she also knew that pushing Ilya too hard would guarantee Shane did the exact opposite, so instead she had offered Hayden. Support without surrender. Shane almost appreciated it. Almost.
“I’m fine,” he muttered.
Yuna’s expression changed instantly. Shane regretted the words before she even spoke.
“Do not start doing that.”
He frowned. “Doing what?”
“Telling me you’re fine when you clearly aren’t.” His mother’s voice remained calm, but there was something firm underneath it that stopped Shane from interrupting. “If you don’t want Hayden there, fine. If you don’t want Ilya there, fine. I’m not going to force either of them into the car. But you are allowed to feel terrible without pretending otherwise.”
Shane swallowed. For some reason, that landed harder than it should have, “I know.”
“Do you?”
He looked at her sharply.
Yuna held up one hand before he could argue. “Eat another bite of toast. We have to leave soon.”
Shane hated that she could end conversations like that. He hated even more that he obeyed.
By the time they arrived at the hospital, Shane had convinced himself his mother had been overreacting. He could handle this.
Yesterday had been his first treatment. Of course his body had reacted badly. Today he knew what to expect. He knew what the room looked like, knew how the IV would feel going in, knew which nurses would talk too much and which ones understood when he wanted quiet.
Information made things manageable. That had always been true.
The first hour wasn’t even that bad.
Shane sat back in the infusion chair with his hood pulled up and his phone resting facedown against his thigh. His mother had brought a book and was seated a few feet away, thankfully giving him the illusion of privacy.
Every few minutes his phone vibrated. Shane ignored it. He didn’t need to look to know people were checking on him. Hayden had already texted that morning. JJ had sent something shortly after. His father had called before they left the apartment.
There was one person Shane hadn’t heard from. That was good. It meant Ilya was respecting what Shane had asked for. He should have been relieved. Instead, sometime during the second hour, Shane caught himself wondering whether Ilya was awake yet. He immediately picked up his phone and opened a game instead.
The nausea started slowly. At first it was nothing more than the same unsettled feeling he’d woken up with. Shane shifted in the chair and took a sip of water, trying to ignore the sour taste creeping into the back of his throat.
Twenty minutes later, ignoring it became impossible. His stomach cramped violently enough that Shane doubled forward without thinking. His mother immediately lowered her book.
“Shane?”
“I’m fine,” he managed through clenched teeth.
Yuna said nothing.
Shane appreciated her restraint for approximately three seconds before another cramp tore through him. The nurse noticed before Shane could wave anyone off. Everything after that seemed to happen irritatingly fast.
Someone brought a basin. Someone adjusted something on his IV. His mother moved closer despite Shane’s attempt to tell her she didn’t need to, and then the nausea surged so violently that there wasn’t any room left for embarrassment. Shane barely managed to grab the basin before he vomited. His entire body contracted around the movement.
There wasn’t much in his stomach to begin with, which somehow made the whole thing worse. By the third time he retched, nothing came up except bile, his throat burned, and tears had started leaking from the corners of his eyes completely involuntarily.
“Fuck,” Shane choked out when he finally managed a breath.
His mother’s hand settled between his shoulder blades.
Normally, Shane would've pulled away. He didn't have the energy. Another wave hit before he could straighten up, leaving him shaking by the time his stomach finally stopped trying to turn itself inside out. The nurse said something about medication. Shane nodded even though he barely processed the words.
Pain radiated through his leg where he had tensed every muscle through the vomiting, and his stomach felt raw and cramped. Sweat had broken out along his forehead despite the room feeling freezing.
His mother rubbed slow circles over his back. Shane closed his eyes. He wanted to go home. The thought came so suddenly and so fiercely that his chest hurt.
Not because the hospital scared him. Shane could deal with hospitals. He could deal with needles and doctors and medications and treatment plans. He just wanted this to stop. For one fucking minute, he wanted his body to belong to him again. Another tremor went through him.
His mother reached for the water on the small table nearby, but Shane shook his head before she could hand it over.
“I don’t want anything.”
“That’s okay,” Yuna murmured, setting it back down without arguing.
Shane kept his eyes closed. He should've called Hayden. The thought surprised him.
Hayden would've hated seeing him like this. He probably would've paced around the infusion room until someone threatened to remove him, asked approximately fifty questions, and found some way to make Shane laugh despite himself.
JJ would've been quieter. His dad would've pretended everything was normal. And Ilya—
Shane stopped himself. No. Except his mind had already gone there.
He pictured Ilya sitting beside him instead of his mother. Big enough that Shane could probably lean against him without either of them acknowledging what he was doing. Ilya would've complained about the hospital coffee before finding something else to antagonize Shane over. Montreal's inferior hockey team was always an easy target, as were the apparently endless number of Canadian customs Ilya had decided were ridiculous simply because Shane defended them.
Or maybe he would've brought up Hayden. Ilya never seemed to run out of things to say about Pike, and Shane could practically hear some obnoxious comment about his best friend that would've forced him to defend Hayden despite knowing perfectly well that Ilya was only doing it because getting Shane worked up amused him.
If Shane got frustrated enough to swear at him in French, that would only make it worse. Ilya would give him that smug look and remind him that Russian was a superior language anyway. Then, depending on his mood, he'd probably start complaining about English too, despite the fact that he spoke it well enough to be particularly irritating in it.
Shane would've argued. That was probably the point.
Ilya would've kept poking at him until Shane was thinking about anything other than the chemicals dripping into his body, the pain radiating through his leg, or whether he was going to throw up again.
He would've rubbed Shane's back while he vomited. He already had. Yesterday, when Shane had barely been able to process the fact that Ilya was sitting on his couch, Ilya had put a hand against his back like it was the most natural thing in the world. Shane remembered how warm it had been.
That was the thought that broke something. Tears welled up, without any real answer behind them. Shane was simply exhausted and sick and hurting, and for the first time since this entire nightmare started, he didn't want to prove that he could handle it.
He wanted someone. More specifically, he wanted Ilya. The realization scared him enough that his first instinct was still to fight it. Relying on Ilya was dangerous. Shane knew that. Yesterday had already changed too much between them. Calling him now would change more. Because if Ilya came when Shane asked, then Shane would know he could ask. And if he knew he could ask, eventually he might start doing it without thinking.
That was how people became necessary.
Shane swallowed around the burning in his throat and slowly opened his eyes. His phone was still resting against his thigh. For several seconds, he only stared at it. Yuna noticed; of course she did. But for once, his mother didn't say a word.
And that alone pushed Shane to turn his phone over and hover over Ilya’s contact. His next move would signal a shift that couldn’t be undone. If he contacted Ilya and asked him to come, Shane would be relinquishing control of whatever this was between them. Despite knowing this, he sent a text and then leaned back, closing his eyes.
Jane
Are you still in Montreal?