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“Did I ever tell you about the dream I had when I got that concussion?”
Ilya stops tracing the grooves of Shane’s abs to squint up at him. “The what? No.”
Shane shrugs. “I was pretty high when I woke up. I haven’t really thought about it since, but I swear, it’s like I saw the future." He tilts his head further into the pillow so he can face Ilya completely and stroke sweaty curls off his forehead. Ilya sighs and pushes into it. His eyes shut contentedly. Shane's heart is so full it could burst.
Quietly, he amends, “Our future.”
That gets Ilya to look at him again. His breath hitches a little bit, shoulders twitching with the movement.
“Tell me about it, then.”
—
Shane wakes up terrified.
Can I move? is the first question on his mind. It’s answered quickly by the memory of being asked to move his toes and the sensation of doing it now; the paramedics took his skates off.
Thank god. Fuck.
His relief is quickly strangled by somebody saying his name, just as concerned as it’d been on the ice. Significantly closer, or at least less muffled. His second question is: Who can see us right now?
He opens his eyes to check and Ilya is there, hovering above him. His fear spikes, sitting wrong with the wisp of comfort because Ilya stayed, for him. Ilya cares— which, of course he does, Shane understands that better now than he ever’s been able to— but he still shouldn’t be this goddamn close.
“Shane,” he says. It’s still shocking to hear. “—, what’s wrong?”
Shane doesn’t catch the nonsensical word after his name because he realizes Ilya is shirtless. And then he shifts and sheets tangle around his own bare chest. Is he naked? Are they both fucking naked?
A loon howls distantly.
Shane doesn’t remember sitting up, but from one moment to the next, he is. His head spins. He presses himself back into the mound of pillows stacked against the headboard. Like this, he can see the whole room and confirm that they’re definitely alone, which is the most important part. At least now his brain can latch onto the other problem.
“You,” Shane starts. He doesn't want to look directly at Ilya because doing that usually makes him kind of stupid. Looking around doesn’t help, though. It’s his room, but it’s not the same as it was last time he left it. There are new pictures on the walls he can’t see from this far without his glasses. The sheets are the wrong color.
He’s muttering, “This is my house. You’re in my house,” when something alive launches into his lap. It scares a loud curse out of him, barely calmed when he registers it’s a dog. A dog?
“Shh,” Ilya hisses. Now he’s also sitting up, craning his neck so he can stare at Shane dead on. He looks (rumpled, unbearably handsome) baffled, and if Shane weren’t fighting against his own adrenaline and the distraction of weak morning light somehow radiant on Ilya’s skin, he’d laugh. “You make no sense. Are you still asleep?”
Wait, that’d make sense. “Am I? This has to be a dream.”
“No,” Ilya dismisses automatically. He narrows his eyes, eyebrows twitching together in the sudden, awful silence. Shanes hates being at a disadvantage. His skin is fucking crawling.
The dog snuffles and starts attempting to bury its nose into Shane’s thigh. The contact’s grounding, so he allows it.
Ilya finally asks, “Why do you think this is a dream?
Shane throws his arms out. It’s pretty self-evident, but then again, he’s eighty percent sure Ilya can’t be real, so he’s arguing with himself. “I’m not supposed to be here.”
Ilya nods at him slowly, though it’s clear he doesn’t get it. “Okay. Where are you supposed to be?”
Shane opens and closes his mouth, dropping his arms to wrap them around himself. Right, practically naked. Great. He hedges, “A hospital, probably? Th-They said they were putting me on a spinal board, I’m guessing I need scans and shit.”
Ilya’s brow furrows even more. Before Shane can really commit the expression to memory, it smooths away completely into shock. Ilya sucks in a breath. He touches the cross where it hangs between his collarbones when he stiltedly asks, “Is that the last thing you remember?”
“Yes, so I really don’t understand why—” Shane’s voice cracks as another thought crashlands messily into his head. He thinks he’s getting louder. He swivels his head to look at Ilya directly for the first time. “Wait… Did my parents see you come in?!”
The last words are muffled by Ilya diving forward to clap a hand over his mouth. Shane’s hands fly up to grab at his arm, though he doesn’t follow through on yanking him off because the nearness turns out to be needed. It’s like his panic hits a wall. His fingers squeeze uselessly.
“Seriously, shut up,” Ilya mutters, just slow enough to mean it despite the way his eyes are distracted flicking over Shane’s face. There’s a pillow scar cutting over his temple, the dip of his nose. Shane shuts up. He probably couldn’t speak if he tried.
Ilya gives him a final considering look then nods once, almost a shake out. “Okay. I know what is happening. Go downstairs. Go outside. Breathe. I will follow you in a second.”
He lets go, sits back, and Shane doesn’t mean to follow, but he does. “You— What?”
“You are freaking out,” Ilya explains, or says like he’s explaining, because that clears up absolutely fucking nothing. “No reason to, I promise. Go calm yourself down, it’ll be easier to talk.”
He’s not seriously telling me to calm down right now.
“What?”
Ilya makes an aborted motion like he’s going to cover Shane’s mouth again, which, well, Shane is embarrassingly anticipatory of. Instead, Ilya softly grips him by the jaw. His other hand fits over Shane’s where he’s strangling the sheets. Ilya breathes in, out, in, out, and by the third time, Shane catches on. He mimics it. His heart rate doesn’t slow, but his mind gets a little clearer.
How are you doing this? Shane wonders, struggling to meet an unwavering gaze. How do you know I need it?
“Hollander,” Ilya pronounces the way other people might a term of endearment. He lets go of Shane’s face to splay the hand where his neck meets his shoulder. “You are in your house. Is just you and me here.” He swallows, then, before shaking Shane once. The way his thumb strokes over Shane’s collar helps. “You are okay. You are safe. Go.”
He pulls back, keeping the one hand on Shane’s. He twists to grab something wedged in the mattress. Shane stares so hard every time he blinks, the birthmarks scattered across Ilya’s back flash behind his eyelids. Ilya reemerges with a t-shirt he waves at Shane until he reaches for it. He tugs at Shane a little bit before letting him take it. “And please,” he stresses, a small electric shock, “be fucking quiet.”
It’s mortifyingly easy to do what Ilya says. Shane shoves into the shirt and does the same to that old feeling, right into the backburner. He’s got enough to think about right now. At least he’s wearing pants.
Ilya and the dog aren’t far behind him as pads out. They split when Shane steps toward the staircase, both of them following the curve of the hallway to the extra rooms. Shane starts asking (whispering, thank you), “Where are you,” but Ilya catches his eye and he cuts himself off. He tilts his head for Shane to continue down.
He’s so fucking lucky Shane is still struggling to breathe. Fine. Sure.
I will follow you in a second, he said. What the hell else does he have to do in my house?
Shane barely lifts his head, too busy making sure he doesn’t trip over his own feet. A cursory glance shows, once again, the same cottage as ever, except not. He’ll examine that better once he’s got himself under control, probably.
He almost makes it outside, except his eyes catch on a magazine on the kitchen counter. He physically can’t stop himself from going over to it once his brain kind of spells out what’s on the cover.
It’s him and Ilya, which isn’t out of place. The joint photoshoots haven’t been common, but they still have a good handful. This one’s different, though, apart from Shane having no memory of being in fucking Vogue. They're not even in gear.
Instead, they’re wearing complimentary black and burgundy suits. Ilya has an arm slung around Shane’s shoulders, pulling him in a little too close for casual. They're both older, or maybe it's just the direction for the photoshoot that makes them look more distinguished than Shane's ever felt in his life. He looks gorgeous, Shane’s sparking brain manages to comment. That’s all Shane’s able to take in. He can’t even read the rest of the words. His brain processing slows when he catches the glittering row of Cup rings on Ilya’s fingers where they dangle over Vogue Shane’s chest. He steps forward and grabs the magazine to hold it closer, making sure he’s counting right.
Three Cups in total. The fourth on his ring finger is a plain metal band. Shane’s eyes wander naturally over to where his own hands are settled on the closure of his suit jacket. The dozens of times he’s been directed to make that look natural and effortless for other photoshoots flash through his mind. This time, he’s managed it; probably to really show off the five Cup rings. There are six all together, counting—
“I said to go outside,” Ilya says behind him. Shane’s too shocked to so much as startle. Ilya gently pries the magazine out of his grip and herds him away, to the backyard. His tone is dry as ever, but still undeniably careful. “Do you need me to show you the way? I thought this was supposed to be your house.”
“Fuck off,” Shane breathes, instinct snapping him out of the stupor. He cranes his neck back while Ilya opens the door. “What was that?”
Ilya keeps him going and finally sits him down firmly on a porch swing that Shane’s never seen before. “You saw what it was,” Ilya nonanswers. Shane wants to ask more, anything, none of this makes any sense, but Ilya holds his hands up. He settles in beside Shane, just barely touching. Not enough.
“Breathe,” he says again.
How is he so calm? Why is Shane the only one so terrified? Shane squeezes his eyes shut (still with the birthmarks, somehow) and mutters, “You really need to stop saying that.”
“I’m invested in you doing it,” Ilya says. After a beat, he quietly adds, “Shane. This is… a dream, yes? Sort of? I know is hard, but just let it happen. You will be okay.”
Suddenly, it’s more than quiet. Ilya sounds small, completely vulnerable, like he’s trying to settle himself as much as he is Shane. That’s what does it, probably. The inadvertent reassurance that Shane’s not alone, even if this, whatever this is, isn’t the same for Ilya. It helps that he’s really starting to like the way Ilya says his name. They’re together. He’s safe.
Shane’s hand barely twitches when Ilya takes it in both his own. Shane breathes for a long minute before he cracks his eyes open. The sun’s coming up over the lake, beautiful as ever. That much is the same. Something about this is still home.
After another second, Ilya asks, “Did that actually work?”
“Asshole,” Shane exhales automatically, glancing at him quickly. Christ, he really is way too goddamn hot. He fixes his eyes forward again, hoping the direct sunlight somehow masks the way his face flushes. “M-Maybe. I’m still freaking out, though. My heart’s going crazy.” And, just to let some of his anxious energy go, he complains, “You being shirtless isn’t helping.”
Ilya lets out a surprised huff. Shane flushes even worse but manages not to flinch. It’s not like he’s lying. It’s not like he has to, anymore.
Ilya squeezes his hand once and hefts himself to his feet. “Fine.” He turns a little on his heel to point at Shane in the face. Shane is currently eye level with his navel. Again, not helping. “You, stay.” He flattens both hands out in the air and pushes them down, too exaggerated to be as genuine as he was a few seconds before. “Breathe.”
“Yeah, I got that part,” Shane bites out. Ilya flashes him two thumbs up and goes. Part of Shane doesn’t want him to, but he does need the moment alone to recalibrate. If this is a dream, he’s never had one this fucking vivid. Or so… honest. Detailed is probably the right word. He’s never let himself think of details until pretty recently.
Shane calms down enough where he can’t feel his own heart physically pushing up against the palm he presses to his chest. Ilya comes back some hazy time later, wearing a shirt. He’s also holding two bowls with spoons sticking out of them. He situates himself back beside Shane and thrusts one at him.
“Here. Is healthy, or whatever. It should help.”
Shane looks between Ilya and the bowl for a second before he accepts it. It’s a dark pink smoothie, topped with everything Shane usually likes to get. He spends so long staring at it that Ilya leans forward with elbows on his knees and starts eating his. The quiet crunch of granola is what snaps Shane back.
“I didn’t hear the blender going,” Shane decides to say.
Ilya snorts and averts his eyes, gesturing with his spoon. “We can’t turn on the blender in the mornings. Is better to freeze a…” The side of his mouth twists and he makes a space between the bowl and the spoon. “An amount? When you bake and shit?”
The implicit expectation for Shane to fill in the blank reroutes his wondering why they can’t turn on the blender. “A batch?”
“Yes. That. Freeze a batch, take some out, smash it with a fork. Not as fresh, but it gets job done.” Ilya takes another bite and hums. “You made this one. Sorry about that. Mine usually taste better.” Shane shoots him a look. He shrugs, mouth twitching back up, not quite a smirk. “What? Is true. You said so.”
“No, I didn’t,” Shane responds, offended. Ilya makes an infuriatingly noncommittal sound. Shane scowls and insists, “I wouldn’t.”
“You are very honest under the right pressure, —, I don’t think I need to tell you this,” Ilya shrugs again. The smirk finally comes in full force. Asshole, Shane has to think because that’s not something he can effectively disprove. At least seven different instances of that flash through his head. It’s too fucking early for this.
Ilya nudges at Shane’s knee with his own, snapping him out of the threatening spiral. “Eat.”
With lack of anything better to do and the gradual awareness of actual hunger rising, Shane does. The smoothie’s good, so Ilya probably is fucking with him. Maybe. Shane waits to see if he has any other comments to make about it, but mostly Ilya just looks at him. Shane would be more put off by that if that hadn’t become the usual since they touched down in Florida.
Once Shane’s made good headway on the bowl, Ilya asks, “It helps?”
Shane nods. His head feels less pressurized between the cold and the settling of sugar in his system; more like he’s actually supposed to be here. “Yeah. Thanks.”
“Of course,” Ilya responds easily. Shane is struck again by something Ilya said the first time they’d met up at his house. Who managed to convince Ilya he was lazy, of all things?
After a bit of companionable silence, Ilya scrapes his bowl clean with a satisfied sigh Shane does not play on repeat in his head for the next few seconds. For all he ragged on Shane's apparent inferiority, he licks the spoon too, and not even in a dirty way. It's an honest, nothing gesture that manages to make Shane’s heart jump fondly. Ilya’s not calculated, but he always seems to do everything so deliberately.
If Ilya notices, he doesn’t say anything. He does catch Shane looking once he already has the bowl set aside. He inclines his head to the sunrise. “Do you want to stay outside?”
Shane nods once, quick. “Yeah. You can go back inside if you want.”
Ilya rolls his eyes and says something exasperated in Russian. At Shane’s blank look, his face twitches and he softly adds, “That means idiot. Of course I will stay with you. Take as long as you need.”
With that, he gets up. Shane’s settled enough, now, where he doesn’t care to set his bowl down and twist his head to watch what Ilya does (in his house, like he owns the place). He cracks the door open for the dog to come zipping out. The change in Ilya’s demeanor is miraculous, so much so that Shane doesn’t bitch about him deliberately leaving the door open. A weight Shane didn’t realize was on his shoulders, lifts. It’s like Ilya’s entire body starts glowing, smile splitting wide and completely, utterly happy. He bends down to scratch her head, both huge hands enveloping her entire skull. Shane’s chest burns.
“What’s her name?”
It’s nearly fatal when Ilya turns the full force of his shine onto Shane. He straightens up, flourishing an arm down at the dog. “Anya. She is my firstborn, the most perfect puppy in the world. Aren’t you,” he coos, dissolving into a long string of high-pitched Russian. Anya must understand more of it than Shane, because she goes ballistic for it. She starts running excited circles around the swing, tail wagging fast enough to dissolve into the air.
It’s pretty cute, especially since she seems to be keeping up with Ilya’s quiet rule. Shane grins. “You don’t usually speak this much Russian,” he says once Ilya sits down with him again. It’s met with a questioning glance, so Shane amends, “Around me, I mean.”
Ilya blinks at him. It might be the fading dawn light, but his cheeks are a little pink. “Why would I? Do you understand it?”
I want to. “No, but you’re doing it a lot now, is what I’m saying.”
“Answered your own question. You don’t know enough to be useful.” Somehow, despite a complete lack of inflection, Shane can sense something dirty in the way Ilya just said useful. Goddammit. He narrows his eyes, but Ilya doesn’t give an inch.
Grumbling, Shane jerks his chin at whatever Ilya had set down next to him when he’d come out with the smoothie bowls. “What’d you bring there?”
All teasing drops and Ilya beams, grabbing the thing without looking. “I was waiting for you to ask. I thought you would want to see something else, once you calmed down. Satiate your curiosity.”
“You would know that word,” Shane says and accepts what ends up being a picture frame. He has to hold it up close again to really see it.
A chaotic group photo on the ice. Blurry pieces of falling confetti almost obscure the Stanley Cup raised dead center in the pile of black and red-clad team members– Ottawa’s colors. Shane spots himself because his helmet’s off and his hair’s a dark, wild splotch against all the white of the stadium. He’s holding up the right side of the Cup, pressing a kiss to the surface. On the left, Ilya’s doing the same. It’s a little lost in the movement, but Shane doesn’t have to try hard to notice how their ungloved fingers overlap holding up the base together. They each have at least three other men hanging off of them, all yelling, all smiling just as wide as they are.
It might have been better if they had actually kissed. It’s like the Cup is their third or something. Nevermind that they’re being photographed, that they’re on the same team, that their teammates don’t even seem to give a shit. The entire thing is so bizarre, Shane is convinced this is the moment he’ll wake himself up.
Ilya leans in closer to ask, “You like it? Only one printed. I’ve gotten very good at tracking down photographers.”
Stiltedly, Shane answers, “I-I do. I just can’t—“ He might, mortifyingly enough, start crying. The urge to is sudden, hot behind his eyes. “This isn’t real,” he gets out, mostly to himself. He presses the heel of his hand into both his eyes quickly, forcing himself to keep in the calm he’s built up. “It’s— We, I can’t—“
“Is alright,” Ilya says gently. When Shane looks at him, his eyes are doing that soft thing again. He very carefully reaches out and lays a hand on Shane’s knee, patting once. “Don’t, ah, hurt yourself. It has not stopped feeling like it isn’t real for me either. Especially now.” Shane frowns, not understanding that last part, but Ilya winces. He starts removing his hand. “Sorry. Didn’t mean to make you upset.”
Again, Shane stops him. When has he ever refused Ilya’s touch, no matter how annoyed he’s been with him? It’s never been anything but comforting. “You didn’t. It’s nice to…” He looks back at the picture. It’s awful to think that the idea of winning a Cup together is less far-fetched than having a team that is clearly so unbothered by what they mean to each other. Too good to be true. He can’t stop staring at how Ilya’s nose is scrunched against the Stanley Cup the same way it does against Shane’s cheek when they kiss.
It’s nice to dream.
He gives a genuine if not weak smile. “I love it. Maybe if we had more time.”
Ilya just looks at him for a second. His hand twitches like he’s about to remove it, but before Shane can stop him, he just adjusts it higher up. “Yes,” he agrees simply, thumb slipping down the side of Shane’s kneecap. None of it is as sexual as it should be, considering this is Ilya. He keeps having to remind himself not to expect that as a baseline anymore.
Suddenly desperate to banish the unreadable expression Shane’s starting to suspect is pity, he points down. “Was this the first or second Cup with the Centaurs?”
Ilya bursts out an unguarded laugh Shane’s rarely ever heard. “Of course you would notice that.”
“Obviously,” Shane says back, lip curling.
Ilya bites down his own fond smile. He leans back on the bench. “First. Best afterparty I have ever been to. We did not get back to the hotel until the sun was already up.”
“And I was still there?”
Ilya flattens his mouth with a contemplative hum. A dreamy expression comes over his face, faraway in a good memory, which makes Shane’s stomach drop instantly. Ilya says, “Physically, yes. Mentally, you did keg stand. Was glorious, but you would not let me frame that picture.”
Shane groans a little and Ilya starts stroking his hand over his thigh, too light to be deliberate. “How’d you manage to convince me to do that?”
Ilya actually sounds offended when he gasps. “What?! Me?! I didn’t! You scored the tie-breaker, so you went—”
A high sound from deep inside the cottage interrupts. For a second, Shane thinks it’s a cat meowing, but then it happens again, a babble of nonsense vowels. Ilya turns toward it in a quick, instinctual (familiar, after spending so much time around Hayden) motion that only confirms the nonsensical conclusion blaring in Shane’s head. He swears his heart actually stops.
Ilya probably curses in Russian under his breath and glances back at Shane. He presses his lips together with naked uncertainty. It’s a face Shane’s seen before in milliseconds before Ilya smooths himself back over behind haughtiness. Now, it stays. It’s like Ilya’s been blurry and Shane finally got the chance to wipe away the smudge. Shit. He wants to see him this way every day for the rest of his life.
Ilya starts, “I—“
“Can I go with you?” Shane interrupts in a rush. Fuck it, fine, okay, this is a dream. This is just a vivid, fucked up dream, where everything’s perfect and good and Shane doesn’t have to be scared because Ilya’s here and that makes sense, somehow.
Ilya’s eyes widen. His free hand lifts, never quite touching Shane’s cheek. Instead, Ilya drops it on top of Shane’s balled up fist. He untangles Shane’s fingers to bring them to his mouth and press one, two, three kisses across his knuckles. Shane sort of feels like he’s started floating.
“Of course. Come.” He clicks his tongue twice. A few yards away, Anya stops hopping around chasing a dragonfly to pay attention to him. “You too, Anyechka. Inside.”
Ilya stands, grip loosening. Shane doesn’t let him let go, tightening his fingers as he follows. Ilya shoots him an unrestrained grin. It’s dazzling. The brightest thing Shane’s ever seen.
Now that Shane’s actually looking around, he catches obvious signs, everywhere. There’s a small blanket patterned with bunnies folded on the arm of the couch, a play pen with a foam carpet of the alphabet in the living room, tiny colorful spoons drying on the dish rack. Ilya leads him to the guest room he’d passed by initially. Shane swallows down the overwhelmed feeling in his throat to comment on the fact that he knows his way around when they push into the already cracked open door.
A nursery is illuminated by a small moon-shaped nightlight. The little stars of light it throws out catch on the details of the room in flashes; a rocking chair drowning in rumpled blankets, a shelf with pictures of Shane’s parents and a woman he doesn’t recognize, a frankly excessive mound of stuffed animals in the corner.
A mobile of clouds rotates above a crib. Inside it, louder than the soft lullaby playing from somewhere, there’s another sweet, nonsensical sound.
Ilya gently lets go of him to approach the crib. Shane’s always thought he looks so much more massive from the back, the breadth of his shoulders stark and broad. That doesn’t change when he bends and they curl inward. Still, he looks like he belongs there, backdropped by a wallpaper of pink flowers and stars.
“Good morning, sweetheart,” Ilya coos quietly, accent lilting. There’s a delighted gurgle in response. Shane might die. “Were you talking to yourself? What about? Tell us.”
Despite understanding exactly what was happening every second leading up, Shane is still shell shocked when he sees the baby. Ilya cradles her expertly, close to his chest with a wide hand against her back so he can look at her while he talks. She’s—
“Oh my god,” Shane hears himself say. He’s always liked babies. Hayden’s were so adorable, Shane always wanted to squeeze them when he’d babysit. This is immediately different. “She’s— She’s so tiny.” Perfect. She’s perfect.
Ilya seems to understand that’s what Shane means, what he can barely get out. He can’t. It would be too much to say when he can’t keep it after he wakes up.
“Mm. She gets it from you,” Ilya muses, gaze not leaving the baby. She grins wide at the attention, showing off the little nubs of two bottom teeth. Ilya grins back. “See, she knows. Is funny to her, too.” Shane can’t even complain at the dig. He’ll burst into tears.
Ilya has to sense that when he looks at Shane again, but whatever he sees makes him step up into Shane’s space. The baby turns her head curiously, the movement disturbing the mess of curls floating around her head. She finally notices Shane. He’s not prepared for her to immediately shoot a chubby hand out and grab at his collar.
Ilya presses their shoulders together and then the baby into Shane’s arms. He murmurs, “Here. She wants to say good morning. Usually, I speak to her in Russian, but we can cheat today.”
“Jesus Christ,” Shane hears himself say faintly. He’s almost trembling taking her, but he’s got the muscle memory down, at this point. It helps that the baby doesn’t squirm, content with smacking lightly at Shane’s cheeks while she ramps up her babbling. Her eyes are dark and sparkling, so, so happy.
“No,” Ilya clears his throat. Shane can’t look away to confirm if he looks as wrecked as he sounds. His fingers brush over Shane’s patting the baby’s back twice. “Olimpiada.”
Shane’s scowling before he’s finished the first two syllables. The baby—not Olimpiada— giggles at his expression. “Stop fucking with me.”
The sides of Ilya’s eyes crinkle when he gasps in mock offense. “Why would you assume I am?”
“I wouldn’t have let us name our child after something hockey related,” Shane says, not choking on it mostly out of spite. “I can draw the line somewhere.”
“Apparently.” Ilya moves so he’s standing at Shane’s side and the baby can look at both of them. He reaches out and she clamps her free hand around two of his fingers, waving them around.
Ilya trains his gaze on the baby. His voice is loving to the point of agony when he does speak. “This is Alina,” he says, the long i forcing his mouth into a breathtaking smile that Alina mirrors. He repeats her name, drawing out all the syllables playfully. Alina repeats the first Aa, then dissolves into another round of addictive laughter.
Shane can barely take it. He can’t be awake, he’d probably have melted through the floor already. “Good morning, Alina,” he murmurs shakily. She turns her attention back to him and belts another Aa that causes drool to drip down her chin. Shane wipes it away carefully and asks, “What’s the rest?”
Ilya takes a second longer than he should to give a distracted, “Hm?” Shane can’t say he blames him.
“Of her name,” Shane clarifies softly. He’d never given much thought about what he’d name his kids. He’d always wanted them in the faraway context of having to marry a woman to get them. For some reason, that never got him excited enough to daydream about it.
Ilya sniffs. When Shane glances over, his eyes are shining again. He answers, “Alina Ilyovna Hollander-Rozanova.”
It’s a gut punch. Shane’s not sure why he wasn’t expecting it, with all the context. Their names have always been so heavily associated with one another, but he’s never, ever allowed himself to think of them this way; like one. He has to squeeze his eyes shut not to squeeze Alina instead, make sure she’s as tangible as she feels. She can’t be. To distract himself, Shane lowly repeats, “Ilyovna,”, testing it out the same way Ilya had pronounced it.
Ilya hums. “We do not use it much, is not the same as a Western middle name. Her name is strong on its own, anyway. Some people—Hayden, obviously, eugh— call her Ally, for whatever reason. I do not like it. I associate with dumpsters and gang fights." Shane snorts, mostly in surprise that Ilya used Hayden’s actual name with some level of familiarity where the malice usually is. The instinct to defend his best friend rises, but it evaporates just as quickly when Ilya continues, “I like better when Yuna and Jackie call her Nana, or Sveta uses Linochka. They are much cuter.”
Hayden is one thing. His mom and Jackie, in a fonder, more familiar tone, are another, giving Shane complete pause. He’s never heard Ilya talk about either of them before. It makes sense, in context, since they’re— They have a baby, of course Shane’s mom would be involved. It’s still too much.
Somehow, that doesn’t jar him awake either. Shane blinks back the wet film that blurs his vision to give Alina an upraising glance. She almost looks like she returns it. No, she doesn’t look like an Ally. “Yeah. I think it’s best in full. It's a beautiful name.”
“I have always liked it,” Ilya says earnestly. He deliberately turns to Alina, voice tapering. “You picked it from my list. You liked that it sounded like my mother’s.”
That makes something click. Shane darts his eyes over to the shelf with the picture frames, landing on the woman he didn’t recognize. Of course. It makes his heart twist that he has to ask, “I'm sorry, I don't... What’s your mother’s name?”
Shane looks back when Ilya takes too long to respond. He stares back at Shane, throat moving. Ilya brings up a hand and cups his cheek, careful like he expects Shane to pull away. To prove him wrong, Shane presses into it. It feels good, especially when Ilya traces his thumb over where he knows his freckles are most concentrated. So good the edges of his vision are starting to fizz a little.
“Is okay. It was Irina,” Ilya tells him. It gives him that same smile Alina’s name does, tinged with an aching sadness. Shane’s heart might be cracking.
“I do like it," Shane croaks out. He likes how Ilya smiles around it. He likes that it compliments Ilya's name, too. He almost can't stomach the thought that Ilya didn't get to grow up with her, not when she's still this loved by them both.
Shane doesn't feel himself start crying, but when Ilya's thumb moves under his eye again, it comes away wet. He sways closer to wrap an arm around Shane's shoulders, nudging. “Here. Sit with her while I get a bottle.”
Shane nods and lets himself be led again, lowered into the rocking chair. The nest of blankets accepts him easily, especially when Ilya starts adjusting them all around him. The attention is sickeningly sweet. To do something that's not stare, Shane rearranges Alina so she's upright on his lap and she entertains herself by scrunching up the front of Shane's shirt with laser focus. She wiggles excitedly when it stays crumpled instead of straightening back out.
Shane wonders, “She’s so calm. All of Hayden’s kids woke up screaming until they got fed.”
“Did he tell you this? Probably because first thing they’d see is his face. I would be upset too,” Ilya comments without missing a beat, straightening. Shane can't stop himself from barking a laugh, this time, and Ilya beams. He makes no effort to conceal his pride when he continues, “Alina only used to cry when she was newborn. She loves mornings. She loves being awake. Too much, maybe. Nights are more difficult because she is stubborn and fights with sleep. I cannot imagine where she gets that from.”
Shane's eyes droop the longer Ilya talks, lulled by his voice and the beloved atmosphere in the nursery, in the house itself. They have a perfect baby. A perfect life. In real life, Shane thinks the most he can get right now would be to convince Ilya to spend a night at the cottage. “We’re so lucky," he says, tilting his head up to make sure Ilya, real or not, knows he means it.
Ilya's breath hitches. “Yes, we are," he agrees, a little hoarse. Before Shane can ask why he sounds like that, Ilya bends and presses a kiss to his forehead. Shane can still feel the warmth after he pulls away and does the same to Alina. She bobs with the slight force of it, keeping hold of Shane for stability. “I'll be right back, okay?" He says as he pulls away, eyes sliding from Alina to Shane like he's addressing them both.
"Okay," Shane says back, sinking into the blankets to wait. Ilya lingers for a second, then turns to leave.
What's that saying? Hate to see you go, but love to watch you leave? It's the sight of Ilya's back, the flash of the gold chain that hangs around his neck that makes words Shane's never let himself say rise into his mouth. He's asleep before he can get them out, though, arms tightening around the baby so she doesn't fall.
—
“It’s all bits and pieces. I only remembered it even happened because I got deja vu with Anya the other day. I woke up so fucking scared, still thinking I was getting lifted off the ice, and then there you were in bed with me, in the cottage. We had a dog. We were on the same team. We’d won two more Cups together.”
Ilya’s eyes are sparkling even as they droop. His mouth is slightly open, corners turned up. Shane cups his face in both hands, just to get to hold that smile himself.
“There was a baby,” he finishes, barely above a whisper.
He feels Ilya’s face go warmer against his palms. Ilya’s voice is hoarse with surprise. “There was?”
“Yeah.” God, Shane wishes he could remember her name. Her face. He has to let go for a quick second to wipe at his eyes. Ilya makes a low, understanding sound, crawling up higher to tuck his nose up against Shane’s throat. “It was perfect. We seemed so…“
Complete. Settled. Free.
I never thought I could have that; that we could have that.
“Happy?” Ilya fills in when Shane never finishes his thought. That works, too, achingly so.
Shane nods.
Ilya kisses his pulse. “It will be,” he swears, an edge of that iron lad captain’s conviction in his tone. He reaches up, touches Shane’s temple. “We will make ourselves happy. Yes?”
“Fuck yes,” Shane answers without hesitation, steady despite the tears. That’s certain. Dream or not, they will.
—
Shane wakes up clutching at the air.
Where's—
What? What's he looking for? His stick, maybe. His phone? No, none of that's important. It's important. The feeling of loss is so deep, he makes a small sound against it.
He hears, "Mr. Hollander? Are you awake?"
Shane tries to open his eyes and squints them shut again. Light hurts. It'd been so dark just a second ago. There was music. "My dad?"
"No." Whoever it is sounds amused. What's so funny? "Would you rather I call you Shane?"
Huh? "That's my name."
"It is. Well, welcome back again, Shane. You've been in and out for a while."
Shane manages to blink the person into view. He gets the blurry silhouette of some teal medical scrubs, backdropped by a window. It's definitely a hospital room. On some level, that makes sense.
"Am I awake?"
"You are. It's okay if it doesn't feel that way quite yet. You have a concussion and a fractured collarbone from your hit on the ice, but all in all, you should make a full recovery over the summer. We put you on some pretty strong painkillers for now so you could rest."
Painkillers? He takes Advil all the time. It never does this. So what? Like laughing gas? Despite the weightlessness of his body, a pit of dread drops in his stomach. He'd always been extremely relieved he didn't have to get any kind of surgeries that called for it when he was younger, purely out of fear. He hopes he didn’t say anything while he was under.
But what if he did? Would they tell him? Maybe Ilya heard. He'd be honest with Shane. At least, Shane knows he's been trying to be. If Shane insisted, he would. He was here, wasn't he? Where did he go?
"Ilya?"
"Mr. Rozanov? He's in the waiting room. I could send him in, if you'd like, while I get your assigned nurse. It’d be good for you to stay awake a little longer to answer some diagnostic questions."
"Yessh," he enunciates. "Please. Thank you."
"You're very welcome. One moment."
Then he's alone again.
He couldn't have said anything, right? He can barely make himself say it when he's lucid. He's got a firewall of repression. How would it even come up? What if the paramedics asked him about it?
The door clicks back open. He peeks and smiles. Shane's so happy to see him, all other thoughts fly out of his head.