Chapter Text
Chapter One
Ilya shook the snow from his hair as he stepped inside, the last few flakes melting instantly against his scalp. They’d clung stubbornly to him during the short walk from the driveway, as if even the cold didn’t want to let him go. He toed off the fancy winter boots, the ones he only ever wore to events, never practices, and lined them neatly by the door out of habit.
Before the second boot hit the floor, his phone buzzed in his pocket. He smiled before he even answered.
He answered while holding the phone between his shoulder and his ear, and dropping his jacket on the stool at the front door. “Privet, lyubov' moya” (Hello, my love).
“Hey—one sec—” Shane’s voice came through muffled, followed by a sharp clap and a distant, “Boys! Settle down for two minutes!”
Ilya laughed softly at the image of Shane yelling at their team like they were children on a field trip and jogged up the stairs, taking them two at a time like he always did when Shane was on the other end of the line. When Shane came back, his voice shifted—slower, careful, rehearsed. “Kakoye u tebya primernoye vremya pribytiya, dorogaya?” (what’s your ETA darling?)
“So formal sweetheart, we can speak English right now. Da?” Ilya teased as he reached their bedroom and tossed his small travel bag that he brought from the car onto the bed, right next to the larger suitcase Shane had already mostly packed. Of course he had.
Shane sighed on the other end of the call ““Okay, okay,” Shane sighed, though there was a smile in it. “But I do want more practice on this road trip. You’ve been so busy this week—with captain stuff, and the foundation, and all the interviews about Scott’s queer kids sport initiative—we’ve barely had time to talk. Let alone practice my Russian.”
Ilya nodded even though Shane couldn’t see him. Shane always recapped when he was anxious, lined events up neatly like proof that his feelings made sense. Ilya loved him for it.
He tossed the phone next to his bag and hit the speaker button “Da. We will practice this week, I promise. My only job is being your husband and captain of the Centaurs. No more, uh—phil—ant—tropy?”
“Philanthropy?” Ilya could hear Shane smiling as he offered the word in English.
“Da, Blagotvoritel'nost'” (philanthropy). Ilya repeated proudly, and Shane immediately began muttering the word under his breath, turning it over like a puzzle piece.
Ilya transferred his toiletry kit from his overnight duffel into his suitcase and zipped it shut. “Answering your question—I just closed the bag. I leave in five minutes. I meet you and the team at the airport in half hour.”
“I’m really looking forward to rooming together,” Shane said, softer now. “I thought we could try switching to Russian in the evenings so I can practice keeping up with real conversation. I’m still so slow.”
“Nyet, ty uchish'sya!” Ilya said gently. Then, with deliberate mischief “Svetofor” (No, you are learning!... traffic light)
There was a pause. “Wait—what was that last one? Light?”
“Is nothing, Hollander.”
Ilya grabbed his favorite travel hoodie—forest green, with loons stitched on the front, a gift from David and Yuna last Christmas—and slung his suitcase handle down. He carried everything back toward the stairs, slower now with the weight of his roadie bag. Ilya knew Shane well enough to be able to tell over the phone that his husband was feeling anxious.
“I’m sorry I had to be away,” he said, voice gentle. “I missed our night off. I missed you. You should try to relax, yes? Team is good. Everyone is on time. I will be there soon. Still hours before takeoff. We are okay moy dorogoy muzh.” (My darling husband)
There was a small intake of breath on the line.
“I know,” Shane said. “I missed you too. But the interviews with Scott mattered. And it made sense for you to stay in Toronto. I’m proud of you. I can miss you and be proud of you at the same time.”
“Blech,” Ilya scoffed fondly. “Confusing feelings. I still wish I slept next to you instead of spending my day off with dinosaur Scott Hunter. Man is boring.”
“I thought you liked boring?”
“Nyet. You are not boring. You have things you like, things you don’t, and they do not change often—but I am never bored with you. I can depend on you. Hunter talks about serial killers like they are cool fun facts.”
Ilya could imagine Shane’s cheeks blushing as he spluttered over the phone “oh - um Spasibo moya lyubov'” (thank you my love)
Ilya reached the front door again and set his suitcase down. “Uber is almost here. Anything else I need to do?”
“No, I think we’re good,” Shane said automatically. “Fridge is cleaned out, trash is taken, Anya’s with Mom and Dad. There’s soup in the freezer for when we get back - Dad insisted. Your bag has pajamas, game suits, road outfits. I put in the silk shirt Mom got you, in case you want to go out with the rookies looking all eurotrash.”
“Sexy eruotrash no?”
“Very sexy -” A chorus of excited yells blasted through the speakers of Ilya’s phone “BOYS cut it out! - sorry the rookies are excited. I only packed your clothes did you get your chargers? Your toothbrush, deodorant? - don’t forg–”
“Yes, Hollander,” Ilya interrupted gently. “Everything is packed. I put my things from overnight bag straight into my suitcase and my backpack is still packed from Toronto. Uber in four minutes. I will see you soon. Ya tebya lyublyu” (I love you)
“Ya tozhe tebya lyublyu Ilyushenka” (I love you too Ilya)
The call ended, and the house went quiet again—but this time it felt temporary. Bearable, because he was leaving his house to join Shane - his home.
Ilya grabbed his bag and stepped back out into the cold.
—-------------------------—-—--
Luckily, the first flight was short. They touched down in New York only a few hours after takeoff, but the efficiency came at a cost. There was no lingering, no decompression. Bags were unloaded and rerouted to the hotel, dinner became something eaten standing or half-forgotten, and then it was straight to the arena to warm up.
Game day snapped into place around them.
For the next few hours, both Ilya and Shane moved with practiced certainty, dialed fully into their roles. Ilya led from the front, voice loud, posture open, boisterous confidence radiating outward as he set the pace. Shane anchored the rear, counting heads, checking bags, pulling rookies aside under the guise of logistics but really to make sure they were breathing, steady, okay.
They had been on the same team for two seasons now. Long enough to learn where one ended and the other began, and where it was better to overlap. Captain and alternate. Engine and steering. They had a great run in last year's playoffs under their belts to prove the balance worked.
Even in the rush and focus of game day, they still found each other.
A hand brushing another when they passed in the corridor. Eye contact across the room, followed by a subtle nod—you good?—and a barely perceptible answering tilt of the head. They never lingered. They didn’t need to.
They orbited each other like a planet and its moon, never colliding, always aware of where the other was, always in motion, always returning.
Ilya delighted in it.
He had always been someone who reached outward, who craved touch and companionship with an almost physical urgency. Shane met him there without hesitation, offering closeness as naturally as breathing, understanding him in a way that never felt invasive or demanding. To know another person so completely, and to be known in return, still felt like a quiet miracle.
Loneliness had become a rarity. These days, he was surrounded by connections that felt real and earned: his husband, Yuna and David, Anya, his team, his coach, the Pike kids. The shape of his life was full. It was obvious, undeniable - he was loved. He was seen.
Of course, the hollow heaviness still came sometimes. It always had. But the spaces between those moments had grown wider, the weight less suffocating. Shane had told him more than once how proud he was of that, not because Ilya never struggled, but because he always tried.
And that, Shane said, was all anyone could ever ask.
After the blur of team meetings, pre-game press, and warmups, the Centaurs finally took to the ice. Their blades cut sharp lines into the surface as the roar of the New York Admirals’ crowd swelled around them.
At center ice, Ilya flashed a grin at the Admirals’ center. The puck dropped.
The game began in a rush.
—---------------------
The game went fine. They won—but it was a grind, a narrow 2–1 that never felt secure until the final horn. Missed shots rang hollow, passes arrived half a beat late, checks landed awkwardly instead of clean. By the time the teams lined up to shake hands, every player skated off the ice tired, sore, and buzzing with leftover nerves.
“No one’s best tonight, huh, Rosanov?” Scott chirped as they clasped gloves.
Ilya huffed a laugh. “Not my best. But I thought for sure it was yours, no? Right, Hunter?”
Scott shook his head, still smiling. “Goodnight, team Hollander-Rosanov. See you next time.”
Shane skated up just then, catching Ilya by the elbow and steering him gently toward the bench before he could say anything else.
“You’re lucky he’s mellowed out in his elderly age,” Shane murmured.
“Ah, so you agree,” Ilya said solemnly. “Ancient man. Museum will be calling soon to collect his bones.” He tossed one last chirp over his shoulder.
Shane snorted. “Alright, skater boy. Let’s pack it in for the night, eh?”
Ilya tilted his head, pretending to think. “Skater boy is from song Rose played this summer at cottage, da?”
Shane laughed, the sound easy now that the game was over, and squeezed Ilya’s arm once more as they disappeared down the tunnel.
—--------------------
Later that night, Ilya sat on the cool tile of their hotel room’s spacious en suite bathroom, legs stretched out in front of him, a Korean face mask—courtesy of Yuna’s birthday gift—clinging faintly at the edges. His muscles hummed with that pleasant post-game exhaustion, his body loose and warm in the aftermath of a night carefully, generously repaired: steam and hands and laughter in the shower. He felt Heavy. Sated. Grounded.
His eyes were closed as he listened to Shane try to narrate his own detailed skin care routine in Russian “for practice”. Every time he corrected Shane’s grammar he could hear the tiny hitch of small frustration in Shane’s breath before he tried to say the phrase correctly.
Shane packed away the last of his toiletries, then reached out, thumb brushing Ilya’s jaw before leaning down to kiss him goodnight. “Will you come join me after you brush your teeth,” he asked softly, “or is your hip still tight? I don’t mind walking the floor with you for a bit if you need it.”
Ilya tugged him back down for another kiss—longer this time, lingering just enough to spark heat before they parted again. “Nyet. I feel good. Shower, massage, sex, ibuprofen—I am good. Two minutes. Then sleep.”
Shane smiled, yawned, and slipped quietly out of the bathroom.
Ilya pushed himself up slowly, shaking out the last stubborn stiffness. He washed his face, flossed quickly—an unconscious habit he’d picked up from Shane and didn’t resent in the slightest—and brushed his teeth. He filled one of the thin paper cups with water and reached for his antidepressants.
His fingers closed around the ibuprofen instead.
He frowned, scanning the counter. The amber prescription bottle wasn’t there. He checked the toiletry bag, then checked it again, more thoroughly this time—unzipping every pocket, pulling out the larger items. Nothing.
That was strange.
He was sure he’d taken his pill the night before in Toronto. He could picture it clearly. He crouched quietly in the dim hallway by the door and searched through his suitcase, careful not to make noise. Still nothing.
It must have slipped back into the overnight bag this morning when he switched bags. Easy mistake.
From the bedroom, he heard Shane set his phone on the nightstand and click off the lamp. The sheets rustled. Shane sighed, content and sleepy.
It would be fine.
He felt good. Steady. Happy. It was only a few days.
Ilya rinsed the cup, set it down, and joined Shane in bed.
He would be good.