Work Text:
The anniversary arrives quietly.
Ottawa is grey when Ilya wakes, the sky flat and undecided. For a moment he doesn’t remember why his body feels heavier than usual.
Then he does.
He doesn’t say the date out loud.
He scrolls through his phone before he’s fully awake. A message from Shane, sent from Montreal sometime after midnight.
Call me after practice?
And another.
Mom said you’re coming for dinner Sunday. Dad bought a new puzzle. Prepare to lose.
Ilya almost smiles.
David takes puzzles seriously. He organizes the pieces by shape first, not color. Claims it’s statistically smarter. Ilya likes sitting across from him at the dining table, the quiet concentration, the low hum of music in the background. It’s the kind of silence that feels shared, not empty.
Yuna will hand him vegetables to chop and gently correct his knife technique. She pretends not to notice when he stands too stiffly at first, unsure where to place himself in someone else’s kitchen.
They make space for him.
They always make space.
And that almost makes it worse today.
⸻
He types back to Shane:
Yes. After practice.
He hesitates.
Tell your father I will destroy him.
Sends it.
The phone buzzes almost immediately.
He says you’re delusional.
That pulls a small, genuine breath of air into his lungs.
For a second, the weight shifts.
But it settles again just as quickly.
⸻
In the kitchen, he makes coffee and stands by the window. Snow edges the sidewalks in uneven lines. A couple walks past below, shoulders brushing.
He thinks about Sunday dinners at Shane’s parents’ house.
The warmth. The smell of garlic and sesame oil. The way Yuna will say, “You look tired,” in a tone that is observant but not intrusive.
Last week she pressed a container of leftovers into his hands and said, softly, “Text me when you get home.”
He had nodded. Smiled. Said, “Of course.”
He hadn’t texted.
He forgot.
Or maybe he just didn’t know what to say beyond I am home and still tired in a way that sleep does not fix.
⸻
He tells himself again:
It was accident.
His mother swallowed a bottle of pills. She was exhausted. It was mistake. Miscalculation. Something tragic and sudden.
Not something chosen.
He used to believe that without effort.
Now he knows how depression can stretch across months like a shadow you stop noticing because it’s always there.
He knows the way it narrows your world.
He has been steady with Shane. They’ve been good. No major fights. No dramatic fractures. They plan visits around game schedules. They fall asleep on FaceTime sometimes, screens dimming between them.
It should feel secure.
But today, the security feels like glass.
Thin.
He presses his palm flat against the counter and closes his eyes.
He misses something he can’t name.
It isn’t Moscow, exactly.
It isn’t even Shane.
It’s the feeling of being fully understood without translation.
At dinner with Yuna and David, he is loved — he knows that. But he is still assembling himself carefully. Choosing words. Monitoring tone. Smiling at the right moments.
David will ask, “How’s practice?” and Ilya will answer with statistics. Ice time. Shot percentages. Clean, measurable things.
No one asks, “How is your head?”
And if they did, he isn’t sure he could answer in English.
⸻
His phone buzzes again.
Shane:
You sound quiet this morning.
Ilya stares at the message.
He types:
Just thinking.
Deletes it.
Just tired.
Sends.
A pause.
Then:
Want me to drive up after the game tomorrow?
Two hours. It’s nothing. It’s everything.
The offer is simple. Direct. Practical.
Ilya imagines Shane’s car pulling into the lot. Imagines the familiar weight of his arms. The steadiness. The way Shane’s presence reorganizes a room.
He wants that.
He also doesn’t want Shane to see this — this low, humming absence inside him.
He types:
You do not have to. It is long drive.
Shane replies:
It’s not that long.
Logical. Correct.
Ilya exhales slowly.
He whispers, in Russian this time:
“I am scared I am becoming her.”
The words feel dangerous in the quiet apartment.
He remembers his mother at the window. The blankness that wasn’t dramatic, wasn’t explosive. Just… thinning. As if she were slowly fading at the edges.
That’s what frightens him most.
Not sadness.
Not crying.
But the dulling.
The way even dinners with warm kitchens and puzzles and gentle voices can feel slightly out of reach.
Like he’s behind glass.
His phone buzzes again.
Hey. Talk to me.
Three words.
Open.
Inviting.
And Ilya realizes he doesn’t know how.
He sets the phone face down on the table.
The apartment is still.
He stands there for a long time, caught between the urge to drive to Shane’s parents’ house just to sit in their warm kitchen — and the equally strong urge to disappear into the quiet.
He tells himself again:
It was accident.
But for the first time, the word feels less like comfort and more like denial.
And somewhere under the heaviness, a new thought begins to form — fragile and terrifying:
What if she didn’t accidentally swallow anything?
What if she just got too tired of fighting the water?
Ilya grips the edge of the counter until his knuckles pale.
He is not drowning.
He is not.
But the water feels closer than it used to.
Ilya pulls his coat tighter around himself as he steps out into the Ottawa cold. The air bites at his lungs — sharp, clean, punishing in a way he almost welcomes.
At least cold makes sense.
The rink smells like rubber and ice and sweat when he walks in. Familiar. Structured. Predictable.
Lucas Haas is already on the ice, doing careful edge work near the boards. He moves like someone who still feels grateful to be here — precise, a little rigid, determined not to mess up. When he spots Ilya, he grins.
“Morning.”
“Morning,” Ilya replies.
Lucas studies him for a fraction too long. “You good?”
“Yes.”
Lucas nods, but it’s the kind of nod that says I don’t fully believe you but I won’t push.
Troy Barrett skates in late, all easy confidence and noise. First-line right wing energy. “Rozanov,” he calls. “Try to keep up today, yeah?”
“I will carry you,” Ilya shoots back automatically.
Troy laughs. “That’s the spirit.”
The banter lands. The rhythm is right.
His body just isn’t.
⸻
The first drill runs clean.
The second doesn’t.
Troy feeds him a perfect pass in the slot — sharp, fast, exactly where it should be.
Ilya hesitates half a second.
The puck rolls off his stick and skitters wide.
A collective groan echoes off the boards.
Troy circles back. “You serious?”
“Yes.”
“That was gift-wrapped.”
“I know.”
They reset.
Lucas lines up beside him for the next rush. “You’re early on your edges,” Lucas mutters quietly as they wait for the whistle. “You’re leaning before the cut.”
It’s not criticism. It’s observation.
Ilya nods once.
He adjusts.
He still feels off.
During scrimmage, he overcommits on a check and leaves space behind him. Troy has to recover hard to cover the lane.
After the whistle, Troy skates up close, voice lower now. “You distracted?”
“No.”
“You look distracted.”
“I am not.”
Troy searches his face like he’s trying to read something in it and coming up short. “Okay,” he says finally. “Just don’t disappear on me.”
Don’t disappear.
The words lodge somewhere uncomfortable.
⸻
In the locker room afterward, the noise feels too loud. Lucas is talking about some Swiss chocolate his family mailed him. Troy is arguing with someone about a missed call from last game.
Ilya sits, unlacing his skates slowly.
Lucas drops down on the bench across from him. “You sure you’re good?”
“Yes.”
Lucas hesitates. “You don’t have to always say yes.”
Ilya gives him a small, tight smile. “I am good.”
Lucas nods, but there’s something cautious in his expression now.
Like he’s filing it away.
⸻
The apartment is quiet again that night.
Too quiet.
He showers. Eats because he knows Shane will ask. Leaves the dishes in the sink, which he never does.
The date presses against him all day, invisible but constant.
His phone lights up at nine.
Shane.
Ilya answers.
⸻
Shane’s face appears, hotel room behind him in New York. The lighting is harsh, casting faint shadows under his eyes.
“You look tired,” Shane says immediately.
“I am fine.”
Shane pauses. “Lucas texted.”
Ilya stiffens. “Why is everyone texting you?”
“Because they care about you,” Shane replies evenly. “He said you seemed off.”
“I was not off.”
“You missed two clean feeds from Barrett.”
“So?”
“So that doesn’t usually happen.”
Ilya shifts, jaw tightening. “It is one practice.”
“It’s not about the practice.”
“Then what is it about?”
Shane leans back slightly. Thinking. Organizing his thoughts.
“You’ve been quiet all day. Your responses are shorter than usual. Your tone is flat.”
“My tone?”
“Yes.”
“You are analyzing my tone now?”
“Ilya, I’m trying to gather data.”
The word lands wrong.
“I am not data.”
“I didn’t mean it like that.”
“It sounds like that.”
Shane exhales slowly, controlled. “Okay. Then help me understand. Is today difficult?”
The careful phrasing makes Ilya’s chest tighten.
“It is just day.”
“It’s not just a day.”
“You don’t know that.”
“I do.”
The certainty feels invasive.
“You think because you remember date, you understand?” Ilya’s voice sharpens. “You don’t.”
Shane’s brow furrows. “Then explain it to me.”
The request is logical. Direct.
Impossible.
“I do not have words for it.”
“Try.”
The pressure in that one word makes something in him snap.
“I am tired of trying,” Ilya says, more forcefully than he intended.
Shane goes still.
“I’m not asking you to perform,” Shane says carefully.
“It feels like that.”
“How?”
“You always need exact explanation. Exact sentence. Exact meaning. If I say something not correct, you pick it apart.”
“I correct contradictions. Not feelings.”
“It feels same.”
Shane’s jaw tightens. “I can’t respond to something if I don’t know what it is.”
“I do not need you to respond correct,” Ilya says. “I need you to just… be
Shane’s shoulders stiffen slightly. “I am being.”
“No,” Ilya snaps, voice sharper than he wants. “You are… solving. Always solving. Always analyzing. Always measuring risk instead of sitting with it.”
Shane blinks. “I can’t sit with it if I don’t know what it is. You don’t tell me what it is.”
“I am telling you!” Ilya hisses. “I am saying it is… heavy! It presses down! It is not one word, not one category, not one measurement!”
Shane’s jaw tightens. “You’re being vague! I can’t respond to vagueness!”
“Because your mind needs framework!” Ilya shoots back. “It is not framework. It is feeling!”
Shane’s hands tighten around the phone. “I’m trying to understand the real problem! You’ve been distant all day, short with responses, flat in tone, and now you want me to just… what? Guess?”
“I am not asking you to guess!” Ilya shouts. “I am asking you to just… exist with me! Be here without trying to fix it!”
Shane exhales sharply, a mix of frustration and hurt. “I can’t do that! I can’t just ‘be’ when I see you struggling and don’t know if you’re safe!”
Ilya freezes. The words hit him like a cold slap. “I am not unsafe!”
“I don’t know that,” Shane fires back. “And if I don’t check, if I don’t question, if I don’t analyze, I will regret it forever if something happens to you!”
Ilya stares at the screen, chest tightening. The anxiety in Shane’s tone, the rigid logic, it all presses on him, suffocating. He feels the old familiar panic — the kind that comes when he’s trapped under invisible weight.
“Then stop!” Ilya snaps, nearly yelling. “Stop making everything assessment and measurement! Stop asking like it is problem to solve!”
Shane flinches, taken aback, his own voice rising slightly despite himself. “I am not treating you like a problem to solve!”
“You are!” Ilya fires back. “Every time! Every time I try to tell you something, you reduce it to checklist and analysis!”
Shane’s fingers grip the phone tighter. “Because I care! I love you! And when you won’t speak clearly, I panic!”
Ilya’s voice falters slightly. The heat, the frustration, the helplessness — it’s all there. “I am not asking you to fix me! I am asking you to sit in it with me!”
Shane exhales again, slower this time, trying to steady himself. “I… I can’t do that unless I know where to start. I need… some starting point.”
Ilya presses his palms to his face, shaking his head. “That is what I mean! There is no starting point! There isn’t always words for this! It is heavy, and it is… dark!”
Shane freezes at the word dark, blink slow, processing. “…Dark?”
“Yes,” Ilya whispers. “…dark. Not bad. Not sad. Not danger. Just… heavy. Like water pressing on chest, like… like nothing reaches.”
Shane studies him for a long moment. “…Okay,” he says carefully. “I… I can’t imagine exactly, but I hear you. I’m here.”
Ilya swallows, chest heaving slightly. “…Thank you,” he mutters, voice small. “…Just… don’t try to solve it. Just… stay.”
Shane’s expression softens. “I will try. But you have to tell me if I’m making it worse.”
Ilya nods slowly, looking down at his hands. “…I will.”
The tension hangs, but the fight has softened. It’s far from perfect, far from resolved, but for the first time tonight, the two are in the same room — even if only through a screen.
Rozanov leans back against the couch, staring at the darkened apartment around him. The anniversary is still pressing down, the water still there, but Shane’s presence — flawed, anxious, human.
The apartment is cold in the morning. Not physically, the heater hums steadily, but the quiet presses against Ilya Rozanov as he sits at the small dining table, breakfast untouched.
His phone buzzes — a message from Shane, probably in New York:
Game tonight. Warmup at 7. You up?
Ilya types back automatically:
Yes.
Deletes it.
Okay.
Sends.
He barely tastes the coffee he pours, the bitter warmth sliding down without satisfaction. Yesterday’s FaceTime call still hums under his skin, like an unhealed bruise. Shane had tried, yes. He had listened. But the misfires, the defensiveness — the rigid anxiety — had left something unsettled.
He drags himself into gear, grabs his stick, and heads to the rink.
⸻
The ice is bright under the overhead lights. The rink smells sharp and clean, the boards echoing with skates and sticks.
Lucas Haas, the rookie Swiss forward, is already working on edges. He waves. “Morning, Rozanov. Coffee first, or ice first?”
“Ice first,” Ilya mutters.
Troy Barrett skates past with the first-line energy that can fill a room even in empty ice. “You look like you’re carrying yesterday on your shoulders,” he says. “Try not to spill it on the ice.”
Ilya forces a half-smile. “Noted.”
Practice drills end, but the distraction follows him into scrimmage. He overcommits on a check and leaves space behind, Troy again forced to cover.
“Careful, Rozanov,” Troy says as he regroups. “You okay?”
“I am fine,” Ilya says automatically, voice tighter than intended.
Lucas, nearby, frowns, adjusting his skates. “You’re… off,” he says quietly. Not accusing, just noticing.
Ilya nods once. He can’t tell Lucas the real reason. Not here, not now.
⸻
The locker room afterward is loud, noisy, chaotic — exactly the environment he should feel alive in. But he feels removed, like watching it through glass.
Troy is teasing Lucas about his Swiss accent; Lucas is laughing softly. Ilya smiles faintly, the gesture more reflex than feeling. He undresses slowly, unhooking his helmet, letting the sweat and tension drip off.
He leans back on the bench for a moment, listening to the chaos, trying to shake off the heaviness pressing on his chest. He doesn’t want to be quiet, but words feel heavy, and explaining yesterday’s FaceTime would make him vulnerable in a way he can’t manage here.
⸻
Later, he sits on the bus back to the apartment, headphones in, the hum of the engine filling the empty spaces in his head. Shane’s game tonight is somewhere in New York — he’ll be busy, focused, surrounded by teammates and the predictable structure of professional hockey travel.
Ilya closes his eyes, letting the motion of the bus blur the edges of the world. The tension from the previous night presses quietly on his chest, but there’s a flicker of clarity: Shane tried. Shane loves him. Even if the love feels rigid at times, even if the emotional wiring doesn’t match perfectly, Shane is present — just two hours away, but present.
He leans his head back and breathes slowly. He knows today will be heavy. He knows the water hasn’t gone anywhere.
But he also knows he can skate through it. One shift at a time. One pass at a time.
Because hockey has always been the one place where his body knows what to do even when his heart doesn’t.
Shanes POV
The arena is electric, the roar of the crowd vibrating through the floors, the bright lights bouncing off the ice. Shane Hollander laces up his skates in the locker room, going through the usual pre-game routine: tape the stick, tighten the laces, warm up the legs. Muscle memory keeps him grounded.
JJ nudges him from across the bench. “You look spaced out, man. New York get in your head?”
Shane shakes his head. “Just… thinking.”
Hayden smirks. “About the game?”
“Yeah,” Shane mutters, voice tight.
They don’t know what he’s really thinking about. That it isn’t the game at all. That it’s Ilya Rozanov, in Ottawa, alone, carrying a weight Shane can’t reach across the miles. That last night’s FaceTime still plays in his head: Ilya’s defensiveness, his frustration, the subtle tremor in his voice, the way Shane misread every cue.
He pushes it down. Focus on the game. Muscle memory. JJ is reviewing plays with him, Hayden adjusting lines. Everything is professional, efficient. Shane skates through warm-up drills, passes to the wingers, takes a clean shot on net.
But the gnawing thought remains. Rozanov in Ottawa, hours away, probably replaying their argument in his head. Shane clenches his jaw. He can’t call now — not in the middle of pre-game prep, not with teammates around. They just see him as a friend checking in on another friend. Shane has to keep it to himself.
He skates faster during drills, letting the motion drown out the worry. JJ fires a pass at him. Shane redirects it perfectly. Hayden calls out a reminder about positioning. Shane nods, responds professionally, but the tension in his chest refuses to leave.
He knows he’ll have to call after the game. He’ll try to bridge the distance, carefully, even if it risks another clash. Even if it’s messy.
Because he can’t ignore Rozanov. Not tonight. Not ever.
Ilyas POV
Ilya sits on the edge of his bed, phone in hand, staring at the dark screen. The apartment is quiet, except for the faint hum of the heater. His training bag is tossed on the floor, untouched, the warmth of the shower he took earlier already gone.
The phone vibrates.
Shane’s calling.
Ilya’s chest tightens. He swallows. He knows this call is inevitable. Shane has that way of checking in, of holding him steady. But the heaviness in his chest is too much tonight. He feels like a stone dragging behind him, like every word he says will be too heavy, too much.
He swipes to answer.
“Hey,” Shane’s voice comes, slightly hoarse, tired. “Game’s done. I thought I’d—”
Ilya cuts him off before he can finish. The words feel like they’re choking him, but he forces them out. “Shane… I… we… I cannot do this right now.”
“What?” Shane’s tone jumps instantly, sharp but careful.
“I… I am too much. I am heavy. I cannot—” He closes his eyes, voice breaking. “I cannot be weight on you while you are away. You have your game, your teammates, your life. I… I am overwhelmed. I… I think it is better if… if we stop.”
There. He said it. The words feel like shards in his chest. He hates them. Hates the sound of them. But he can’t hold it in anymore.
Shane goes quiet.
No words. Nothing.
“Shane?” Ilya whispers. “I… I am sorry.”
The pause stretches. The kind of silence that twists your stomach. Then Shane’s voice comes, low, tight, almost breaking:
“What… what did you just say?”
“I… I think we… should… not—be together. I… I cannot handle… it right now.”
Shane doesn’t answer immediately. There’s a sharp intake of breath. Something in the way he’s quiet makes Ilya glance at the screen — if Shane were there, his face would be devastated. And now he can hear it in his voice: the crack in the steadiness Shane always tries to keep.
“You… you’re leaving?” Shane finally says, voice trembling despite himself. “Rozanov… you can’t just—”
“I am not leaving because I do not care,” Ilya interrupts, quick, too sharp. “I care! But… I am too much. I am heavy. I… I cannot ask you to—”
“Too much?” Shane cuts him off, voice breaking now. “You think you’re too much? Ilya… I don’t care about heavy. I don’t care about difficult. I just—” He swallows hard. “I just… don’t want to lose you.”
Ilya’s chest tightens. He sees Shane in his mind, devastated, probably holding the phone away from his face for a second, jaw tight, hands trembling slightly. It hurts to know he’s hurting. But the weight in Ilya’s own chest is unbearable.
“I… I cannot be this weight on you,” Ilya whispers again. “I cannot see you… broken because of me. You… you deserve better than… than me like this.”
“You think losing me is better?” Shane’s voice cracks, louder now, almost desperate. “Ilya… you don’t get to just—”
“I… I am sorry,” Ilya repeats, softer now, almost resigned. “I… I need space. I… I cannot do this. Not now.”
There’s a long silence.
Shane is breathing, broken, devastated. Ilya can hear it through the phone. The lines of his face, the way his shoulders slump — he can see it even from afar. And his chest twists. Because he loves Shane. He knows Shane will hate this, will hurt, will feel helpless. But Ilya cannot stop the tide inside him.
“I… I have to go,” Ilya whispers. “I… I am sorry.”
And with that, he ends the call.
The apartment feels colder, emptier, heavier than before. And even as he sets the phone down, the echo of Shane’s devastated voice lingers in his mind.
He doesn’t know how to fix it. He doesn’t know if it’s fixable.
He only knows the heaviness presses down, and tonight, he cannot bear to share it anymore.
Shanes POV
The locker room is empty now, the crowd noise long gone, the arena silent except for the echo of skates and doors closing. Shane Hollander leans against the bench, helmet off, stick in one hand, phone lying face-up on the seat next to him.
He can still hear it. Ilya’s voice. The words.
“I… I cannot do this right now.”
“I… I am too much. I am heavy.”
“I… I need space.”
Shane closes his eyes. The room spins a little. His chest feels tight, the kind of tight that makes you want to clamp your hands around something — anything — and squeeze until the panic fades. But there’s nothing to squeeze. Nothing to fix.
He grips his stick harder.
Ilya… you’re not too much… Shane whispers under his breath. But even as he says it, the words feel hollow, powerless. Because Ilya doesn’t hear them now. He’s gone, at least for tonight.
He picks up his phone, thumb hovering over the screen. Text. Just a few words. Please don’t leave me… I love you… But as he goes to type, a bitter thought strikes him — he checks the message thread.
Blocked.
Shane freezes. The screen is clear: no option to message. Nothing. His heart thumps in his chest like a warning bell. The finality is sharp, jagged. Ilya has put a wall up — maybe to protect himself, maybe to protect Shane, maybe both.
JJ’s voice floats in his memory: Everything good? Long night.
How could he explain? They think Ilya is just a friend. They don’t know. They can’t. And Shane can’t risk telling them either.
He drops his head into his hands.
The adrenaline from the game is gone, replaced with a crushing emptiness. He remembers Ilya’s words, the way they trembled, soft but impossible to ignore. The defensiveness, the hesitation, the way he tried to protect Shane even while cutting him off.
Shane wants to call, to text, to say something — anything. But he can’t. He can’t reach him. Not tonight. Not ever, maybe.
He leans back against the wall, eyes staring at nothing, mind racing with all the things he wishes he could say:
I love you.
You’re not too heavy.
I don’t care about perfect words or neat explanations. I just care about you.
But he knows tonight, Ilya can’t hear any of it.
So he sits there. Alone. Post-game adrenaline gone, exhaustion deep, heart fractured.
And he waits.
Because Shane knows — despite the distance, despite the argument, despite the blocked messages — he cannot ignore Rozanov. Not ever.
Ilya sits on the edge of his bed, phone discarded on the floor, screen dark. The warmth of the apartment feels empty now, the quiet pressing in from all sides. He can’t hear Shane’s voice anymore. He won’t hear it tonight.
He swallows, chest tight. The words he said, the call he ended, the block — it all feels irreversible. Shane… he’s gone.
And it isn’t just Shane.
Ilya’s eyes flick to the small framed photo on his nightstand, a picture from last summer at Shane’s parents’ place. Yuna smiling, holding a tray of cookies; David laughing over a puzzle Shane had dropped a piece of. He had loved that home like it was his own — like a second family.
And now… now he fears he’s lost them too.
Both his parents are gone. His brother Alexey… well. Alexey is an ass. Always has been. Never someone he can count on. And Yuna and David… they had become his family too, a kind of anchor in a world that had nothing else steady.
And he had pushed Shane away.
Ilya presses his face into his hands, trying to hold the tears back. But they come anyway, hot and fast, silent on the darkened bed. The guilt presses on him harder than the anniversary ever did. Not only is he drowning in the old weight, but he’s cutting off the only lifeline he has left.
He thinks about Shane’s devastated voice, about the way Shane must feel now — alone in a hotel in New York, exhausted from the game, probably replaying every word, every misread, every moment he couldn’t reach Ilya.
And Ilya hates himself for it.
He thinks of how easy it is to imagine Shane’s parents worrying, checking in, maybe noticing something off about him. And he thinks about the truth: he’s the one who made this impossible. He’s the one who’s gone silent, who blocked Shane, who can’t let himself be comforted.
The apartment feels smaller, heavier. Ilya hugs his knees, rocking slightly, imagining the faces of Yuna and David, the warmth he’s just pushed away.
“I… I ruined it,” he whispers to himself. His voice is tiny in the quiet room. “I lost… everyone I care about.”
And for the first time in days, the loneliness isn’t just a shadow pressing on his chest — it’s screaming, filling every corner of the apartment, echoing against the walls that were supposed to feel safe.
He doesn’t know how to fix this. He doesn’t know if he can.
All he knows is that tonight, the heaviness is absolute.
-
The days stretch slowly, heavy and gray.
Ilya drags himself out of bed most mornings after too few hours of restless sleep. His apartment in Ottawa feels smaller now, quieter, like it’s pressing in on him. He doesn’t bother with breakfast; he grabs something quick from the corner store, burgers or fries, eats standing at the counter, swallowing too fast, not tasting much.
The gym and the ice feel empty too. Hockey practice is routine, but his focus is off. Lucas Haas and Troy Barrett joke and tease around him, but Ilya barely responds. He catches himself replaying Shane’s face from the breakup call — the shock, the disbelief, the heartbreak — and it twists something deep in his chest.
After practice, he heads home. Sometimes he grabs a bottle of vodka — Russian, of course. American vodka tastes thin, fake, nothing like what he remembers. He drinks straight from the bottle, chasing the burn, chasing the quiet. Cigarettes follow, one after the other, smoke curling into the apartment air.
He hates himself for it. And yet… he tells himself he’s protecting Shane. I can’t be weight. I can’t drag him down.
The regret is constant. The memory of Shane’s devastated expression haunts him — in the mirror while brushing his teeth, in the empty fridge, in the hiss of the radiator. He wonders if he didn’t just push away the only person who truly understood him, the only person who had held a space for him without judgment.
Some nights, he almost reaches for his phone, ready to apologize, to say even one word. But he doesn’t. He can’t. Shane deserves better, he convinces himself. Shane deserves his focus, his life, not Rozanov’s mess of pain and heaviness.
The apartment smells of cigarettes and fried food. He drinks until the room tilts. He smokes until his fingers ache. And still, he repeats it like a mantra: I’m doing this for Shane. I’m doing this for Shane.
Even as he pushes himself deeper into recklessness, even as the isolation tightens around him, a small, stubborn thread of hope lingers somewhere beneath the haze. Not hope that Shane will forgive him, not hope that the weight will vanish. But hope that someday, maybe, he could find a way back.
For now, though, he keeps moving, messy and self-destructive, holding himself apart in the only way he knows — fast food, vodka, smoke, silence — even as every fiber of him misses Shane Hollander more than he can bear.
-
And now Sunday approaches.
Sundays are normally a lifeline for Ilya — the one day he drives over to see Shane’s parents in Ottawa. Yuna and David have become the family he never had after his own parents died. Shane’s laughter in the kitchen, Yuna fussing over a tray of food, David teasing him over a dropped puzzle piece — those memories feel like a tether to warmth, to something real, something human.
But this Sunday feels impossible. He broke Shane’s heart. How could he walk in, smile, pretend everything is normal? The thought twists his stomach, tight and unforgiving.
Instead, he sits on the edge of his bed, vodka in hand, cigarette smoke curling into the dim room, scrolling through old photos on his phone. Pictures from last summer — Shane laughing, Yuna smiling, David’s playful scowl — and a pang of longing hits him like a fist.
He hates himself. Hates the smell of smoke and grease in his apartment, hates the sting of alcohol and nicotine burning through him, hates that he hurt Shane. And yet… he tells himself again, like a mantra he has no choice but to repeat: I’m doing this for Shane. I’m protecting him. I cannot be weight.
Even so, a small part of him rebels. He misses Shane. He misses the parents he has grown to love like his own. He misses the warmth, the normalcy, the comfort that he has no one else to provide.
The vodka burns. The smoke stings his eyes. The apartment feels smaller, emptier, colder than ever. And still, he tells himself it’s the right choice — the only choice — even as the pull toward them, toward Shane, tugs at him relentlessly.
Ilya’s phone vibrates on the counter. He’s been staring blankly at the wall for what feels like hours, a half-empty bottle of vodka on the table, ash from his cigarette piled in the tray beside it. He glances at the screen, expecting another routine notification, another meaningless message.
It’s from Yuna.
“Ilya, we know… things happened with Shane. But we are still your family. Please come over for our regular Sunday dinner. We’d like to see you.”
His chest tightens. He reads the message again, slowly, disbelief and shame twisting together. Family. Even now. The weight in his chest loosens slightly, just a fraction, but the pull of guilt still holds him in place.
He sets the phone down and stares at it, trying to measure himself. For days he’s been lost in vodka, smoke, and fast food, dragging himself through a haze of self-loathing. He hates the smell of his apartment, hates the burn in his lungs and stomach, hates himself.
But maybe… maybe he can still do this. Maybe he can show up.
It takes hours of pacing, showering, brushing away the smoke on his clothes, trying not to choke on the smell of fast food still clinging to him. He changes into something clean but simple, careful not to make a show of himself, careful not to let the shame take over.
He drives the ten minutes to Yuna and David’s house, hands tight on the steering wheel, stomach knotting with every step closer. He’s rehearsed what he’ll say, how he’ll apologize, how he’ll keep himself small.
The door opens before he can knock. Yuna is there, warm smile on her face, arms open. “Ilya! Come in, come in.”
And then… he sees Shane.
Shane is standing in the kitchen, hands stuffed in his pockets, posture slightly tense. Ilya freezes in the doorway, heart thudding in a way that makes his chest feel ready to break. Shane looks up, and for a moment, neither of them moves.
The warmth of the house, the smell of cooking, the soft chatter of David in the background — none of it registers at first. All Ilya can focus on is Shane. The same Shane whose voice he can still hear from the night of the breakup, whose devastated expression has haunted him all week.
And yet… Shane is here. Not angry, not running away, not distant. Just… there.
Ilya swallows hard, feeling the pull of everything he’s been trying to hold himself apart from. And for the first time in days, he wonders if maybe, just maybe, he doesn’t have to carry this weight alone.
Shane looks up and meets his eyes. For a moment, neither of them moves. The room around them — Yuna bustling in the kitchen, David clearing the table — blurs into background noise. It’s just Shane.
“I… uh…” Ilya starts, voice cracking slightly, then falters. He can’t think of what to say. His throat feels raw.
Shane tilts his head slightly, eyes narrowing not in anger, but in confusion, concern, and something Ilya can’t name. “Ilya…” His voice is low, cautious. Careful.
Ilya swallows hard, finally stepping fully into the room. “I… I came,” he says, simple, almost too small.
Shane’s expression tightens for a moment — a flicker of surprise, then something heavier. Relief? Pain? Ilya can’t read him. He never has been able to, not fully.
“You… you came,” Shane repeats, quieter this time, like he’s testing it, seeing if it’s real.
Ilya nods, shifting his weight from one foot to the other, avoiding Shane’s gaze. “Yuna… David… invited me. I… I wanted to.”
Shane exhales, a soft, sharp sound, and it echoes in Ilya’s chest like a warning. Shane doesn’t move closer. He doesn’t say anything else. Just watches. Waiting.
Ilya feels every second stretch, heavy with everything left unsaid. The guilt. The shame. The longing. The weeks of alcohol, cigarettes, fast food, and self-punishment weigh on him, but standing here, just inches from Shane, makes it all feel small and inadequate.
Finally, Shane nods once, just slightly, almost imperceptibly, and Ilya takes it as permission to move closer — though he still feels like an intruder in Shane’s space, in Shane’s life, in Shane’s heart.
No words yet. No apologies, no explanations. Just the quiet recognition of each other’s presence, fragile and tense, like a crack in ice that could either shatter or slowly start to melt.
And for the first time in days, Ilya dares a tiny thought: maybe being here wasn’t a mistake.
Shanes POV
His body feels tight, coiled, like he’s holding himself together with threads that are fraying fast. He can feel the familiar sting behind his eyes, the ache in his chest that has nothing to do with physical pain.
Heartbreak.
It’s sharp, but it doesn’t come with words. He knows he should be saying something, reaching out, closing the space between them. But he can’t. Not yet.
His mind starts running through all the possibilities, all the things he could say, but none of them feel correct. Don’t leave me again. I missed you. It’s okay. Every thought ends up sounding wrong, awkward, incomplete. And the pressure of needing the “right” words makes his chest tighten even more.
Ilya is standing there, small, tentative, still carrying the weight of the past week. Shane notices it immediately — the slump of his shoulders, the tired shadow under his eyes, the faint tremble of a hand. And it cuts deeper than he expected. He wants to reach out, to say something, to fix it, but he doesn’t know how.
Shane shifts his weight from one foot to the other. He can feel the anxiety crawling under his skin. His stomach knots. His palms are slick. He wants to move closer, wants to bridge the distance, but the wrong move could make it worse. Ilya’s fragile. Ilya’s already hurt. Don’t make it worse.
So he just… stands. Watches.
Every part of him aches. The heartbreak presses in, but he doesn’t have the words to explain it — or even to feel it fully. He knows he feels devastated, that he’s been scared and lost this past week, but translating that into words, into action, is nearly impossible.
He takes a slow breath, steadying himself as best he can. The pan in his hands feels absurdly heavy. He sets it down carefully, trying to keep the tremor out of his movements.
Shane wants Ilya to know he’s here, that he’s not angry, that he’s still him. But every attempt to express it feels… wrong. Too literal, too stiff, too clinical. He’s used to thinking in data, in precise responses. And this — heartbreak, love, longing — doesn’t fit into anything he can analyze.
So he just nods, small, almost imperceptible, and keeps his distance. It’s not much. It’s barely anything. But it’s all he can manage right now.
And somehow, that’s enough to keep him tethered, to remind him — Ilya is here. He didn’t walk away. And maybe, slowly, they can figure out what comes next.
-
The dinner carries on quietly, but tension coils tightly between them. Shane eats methodically, carefully selecting his vegetables, taking small, deliberate sips of his Canada Dry ginger ale. Ilya picks at his own food, avoiding Shane’s gaze, fingers fidgeting near his plate.
Yuna sets her fork down, eyes soft but curious. “So… Ilya,” she begins gently, “how are things… with Shane?”
Ilya freezes, chest tightening, heart hammering in his ribs. The question lands heavier than he expected. His throat feels raw. He glances at Shane, steady and quiet across the table, and finally exhales slowly.
“We… we broke up,” Ilya says, low, deliberate, each word weighted with shame and guilt.
The words strike Shane like a physical blow. His hand jerks slightly, and the ginger ale can topples, fizz hissing and spilling across the table. Shane’s eyes widen, not just at the mess, but at the reality he’s hearing. The breakup — spoken aloud by Ilya himself — crystallizes everything Shane has been trying to hold at bay.
“Shane…” Yuna’s voice is gentle, reaching out as if to anchor him. But he can’t. The tight coil of anxiety, heartbreak, and helplessness wraps around him too tightly.
Shane pushes his chair back abruptly, the scrape of wood sharp in the quiet. His hands tremble, and he feels the sting of unshed tears behind his eyes, the pressure of everything he’s been bottling up. They don’t fall — not yet — but they sit there, heavy and raw, threatening to break through.
He swallows hard, turns toward the hallway, and walks out of the room without a word. Each step is measured, controlled, but his chest feels like it might shatter. The ginger ale spill is forgotten; the room, the warmth, everything fades into a blur as the heartbreak overwhelms him.
Ilya stays frozen, fork halfway to his mouth, eyes wide, guilt and panic twisting in his chest. He didn’t mean for Shane to react like this — didn’t realize the full weight of speaking it out loud. But now he sees, painfully clear, just how much Shane is struggling, and a hollow ache settles in his own chest.
Shane’s footsteps fade down the hall. The air is still thick with unsaid words, with tension and fear, with longing. And both of them — though separated by a few meters — feel the same heavy pull: wanting to reach out, but trapped by their own walls of shame, guilt, and anxiety.
-
Shane pushes his bedroom door closed behind him, the soft click of the latch doing little to settle the storm in his chest. He leans back against it, breathing shallow and tight, trying to calm the sudden surge of panic and heartbreak.
His gaze falls on the shelves above his desk — old medals, trophies, plaques from his youth in ice hockey. Neatly arranged, every ribbon straight, every plaque polished until it gleams. A lifetime of control on display: control over the game, control over his body, control over outcomes, control over everything he could measure and train for.
And yet… he can’t control this. Can’t control the ache in his chest, can’t control the tension knotting in his stomach, can’t control the images of Ilya’s face, the words we broke up echoing louder than any cheering crowd ever did.
Shane’s eyes flicker across the shelves again, noticing something he rarely thinks about — even as a kid, even with all this precision and discipline, he struggled reading people. The subtle cues, the emotions that weren’t verbal, the way someone’s eyes flickered or shoulders tensed — he often missed them, or misread them. He was brilliant at control, terrible at understanding the uncontrolled, unpredictable parts of people.
And then the pieces start to click, slowly, painfully. He thinks of Ilya over the past week — the withdrawn texts, the clipped answers, the avoidance. The muted sadness, the subtle self-destruction Shane hadn’t recognized at first. And suddenly, the weight of it lands fully: Ilya has been carrying this alone, in silence, and Shane hadn’t known how to reach him.
The tight coil in Shane’s chest loosens just enough for him to feel the raw ache, the guilt threading through the heartbreak. He doesn’t know how to fix it, but he understands.
A soft creak — the door sighs under a cautious step. Ilya.
Shane turns slightly, eyes narrowing, chest tightening again. Ilya hesitates in the doorway, framed by the warm light spilling from the hall. Shane swallows, throat tight, and simply watches, heart hammering.
And then, Ilya, trying to hide the tension, blurts out nervously:
“Wow… your room… still full of trophies and scary old medals. I should’ve known. Your childhood domain. Trespassers will… be mildly annoyed, right?”
It’s clumsy, awkward, and slightly forced. Shane notices immediately — the humor is a shield, a thin veil over the guilt, the shame, the heartbreak Ilya is carrying. Shane’s chest tightens further, overwhelmed by the sight of him trying to hide behind a joke, trying to make this less painful than it is.
Ilya takes a tentative step forward, voice barely above a whisper. “I… didn’t mean to… scare you or—”
Shane cuts him off with nothing but a small nod, controlled but weighted. No words. No humor. Just presence. Just… acknowledgment.
Ilya exhales, and the tension softens slightly, fragile but real. Shane doesn’t reach out yet; he can’t. The ache in his chest, the heartbreak, the anxiety — it all sits there, heavy and raw. But he can stay. He can be here. And that’s enough for now.
Ilyas POV
Ilya takes a cautious step into the room, the humor fading from his voice, leaving only a trace of nervousness. He glances at Shane, who is still standing near the shelves, eyes fixed on him but chest tight, jaw clenched — the weight of heartbreak visible even in his controlled posture.
“I… I should probably sit,” Ilya murmurs, voice low. His hands fidget at his sides, shifting the balance of his weight, not wanting to appear weak but unable to stay standing.
Shane doesn’t respond with words. He just nods slightly toward the chair near his desk, the smallest motion, but enough to invite him. Ilya moves carefully, almost hesitating with each step, as though the space between them is fragile glass.
Once he sits, Shane notices the tension in his shoulders, the slight tremor of his hands, the way his eyes flick down at the floor and then back at Shane. It hits him fully, the depth of what Ilya has been holding all week — the loneliness, the guilt, the quiet self-destruction, the fear of burdening him. Shane swallows hard, throat tight. He doesn’t have the words to fix it. He barely has the words to process it.
So he does the only thing he can: he stays. He moves just slightly closer, careful, measured, controlled, giving space but signaling presence. Every micro-movement is deliberate, every blink and shift of posture a silent message: I’m here. I’m not going anywhere.
Ilya notices. He notices the steadiness, the patience, the weight Shane is carrying without saying anything. And for the first time in days, a crack opens in the wall he’s built around himself. The edge of his guilt softens, just enough for a shuddering breath to escape.
“I… I’ve been…” Ilya begins, voice barely audible, trailing off. He swallows, trying again. “I’ve been… a mess. Last week. I didn’t mean… to—”
Shane’s gaze softens slightly, his chest still tight, but he allows a small exhale. No judgment. No correction. Just the acknowledgment that Ilya is speaking, that he’s present, that he hasn’t walked away completely.
Ilya lets out a shaky laugh — half humor, half despair. “And… I… probably annoyed you too. I… I didn’t—”
Shane finally moves a tiny fraction closer, still careful, still measured. “Ilya,” he says softly, voice low but firm, “you didn’t annoy me. I… I just didn’t know how to respond.”
Ilya freezes, eyes widening slightly. The raw honesty, stripped of blame or judgment, cuts through the guilt. His chest tightens, but it’s different this time — a weight lifted, not added.
“I… I was scared,” Ilya admits, voice breaking slightly, “that… that I was… too much.”
Shane blinks, swallows, and for once lets himself falter. “I… I wasn’t prepared,” he admits, voice small, unpolished. “I didn’t… know how. But you… you’re not too much.”
The silence that follows is thick but gentle, filled with unspoken words, shared understanding, and the fragile beginnings of a bridge back. Shane’s presence, his quiet acknowledgment, is enough for now. Enough for Ilya to let the walls slip just a fraction, enough for both of them to remember why they can’t let go completely.
Ilya sits there, shoulders tense, eyes flicking down at the floor before meeting Shane’s gaze again. He takes a shaky breath, as if gathering the courage to release something he’s been holding tight for too long.
“I… I want you to know,” he begins quietly, voice trembling but deliberate, “sometimes… when I feel… depressed… it’s… it’s too much. It’s like… it swells inside me. A heavy, dark thing, and I… I can’t see anything except the bad parts. The failures. The pain. Everything feels… bigger than me.”
Shane leans slightly closer, still careful, still measured, but his chest tightens further at the rawness in Ilya’s voice. He wants to reach out, to say something reassuring, but he’s still anchored in his own anxiety, unsure how to bridge the space.
“I… I’m just… tired. Overwhelmed. And… I feel… misunderstood. Even when I try to explain… even when I try to say… something… it never… it’s never enough.” Ilya’s voice falters slightly, but he keeps going, words spilling out in jagged fragments.
“I moved to Ottawa… to be closer to you… because I thought… maybe it would help. That I wouldn’t feel so… lonely. But… sometimes… even here… even with Yuna and David… it just… reminds me that… my parents… they’re gone. That my childhood… wasn’t… what it should’ve been. And… even with you… I… sometimes I feel like you… don’t really see me. Not completely. And I know… you try… I know you do. But it’s… difficult. I… I feel like… I just… can’t be fully… understood.”
The words hang between them, heavy, raw, unpolished. Shane’s chest tightens, the ache in his heart coiling tighter, but for the first time he truly hears Ilya — not the clipped messages, not the jokes or avoidance, not the silence — but the real, raw, overwhelming truth of what he’s been carrying.
Shane swallows hard, throat tight, blinking rapidly to keep the tears at bay. He doesn’t have the perfect words — he never does. But he reaches slowly, carefully, a hand hovering in the space between them, letting his presence speak what his words can’t.
“Ilya…” he says softly, voice low, measured. “I… I hear you. I see you. I… I don’t always know what to do, but… you’re not alone. Not here. Not with me.”
Ilya’s chest rises and falls rapidly, relief and lingering fear tangled together. He shifts slightly closer, just enough to feel the presence, the acknowledgement, without fully letting go of his walls. Shane’s hand doesn’t move to touch him yet, but the unspoken connection — the awareness, the quiet promise — begins to ease some of the heaviness.
For the first time in days, maybe weeks, Ilya lets himself breathe a little deeper, feeling — just a fraction — that he might be understood, that he doesn’t have to carry it all alone.
“I… I know it’s not easy,” Shane begins slowly, voice low, tentative. “Understanding… you… it’s… hard for me sometimes. I… I can misread. I can… miss things. And I know that frustrates you, probably makes it worse…”
Ilya shifts slightly, chest tight, and manages a small, shaky nod. “Yes… sometimes it… it’s too much. But… I know… you try. And… I… I want… to try too. To… help you understand me. Even if it’s… hard.”
Shane swallows, throat tight. The words are simple, but the weight behind them — the acknowledgment of struggle, the willingness to try — hits him harder than any medal ever could. “Ilya… I… I care. I… I don’t want to… let this… us… break. I… I want to… be here for you. Even if I… don’t always know the right way.”
Ilya exhales shakily, voice soft. “I… I want that too. Even when… my mind… my depression… it’s… too heavy… I want… to try with you. We… we can… try together.”
Shane’s chest tightens, but it’s different this time — a sharp ache mixed with relief, with hope. He takes a small step closer, careful, letting the space between them shrink, his hand resting lightly near Ilya’s on the desk. No pressure, just presence.
Ilya notices immediately, the faintest flicker of trust forming in his chest. He doesn’t move away. Instead, he lets himself lean fractionally closer, just enough to feel Shane’s proximity, to feel that connection.
“I…” Shane begins again, voice small, hesitant. “I don’t always… know how to respond when… you’re in the dark. But… I’ll try. I want… to try. With you.”
Ilya swallows, nodding slowly, eyes glistening just a little. “And I… I’ll try… to let you in. Even when… it’s hard. Even when… I’m scared. Even when… I feel… too much.”
They sit like that for a long moment, the weight of their shared pain balanced by the fragile hope growing between them. Neither has fully mastered the other’s world — Shane still struggles to read emotions, Ilya still wrestles with the darkness — but they are here. Together. And that, right now, is enough.
Finally, Shane allows a small exhale. “Then… let’s… give it another shot. Together. Even if… it’s hard. Worth fighting for.”
Ilya’s lips quirk into the faintest, tentative smile. “Yes… worth fighting for.”
The tension softens, the silence now gentle instead of heavy. Not everything is solved, not every emotion understood, but a bridge has begun to form again — fragile, tentative, and achingly human.
And for the first time in days, maybe weeks, they both feel the tiniest spark of hope: that even in darkness, even in misunderstanding, they can still find their way back to each other.