Archive of Our Own

1. November 2021

It wasn’t how Shane had wanted to start his first season with the Ottawa Centaurs. They’d only played a dozen regular season games before he’d woken up with a fever, which would have been easy enough to ignore if it hadn’t been coupled with a cough that felt like it was born from the depths of hell, muscles that ached like he’d worked out for six hours without a rest, a headache that wouldn’t cease, and congestion so thick that he’d forgotten what it felt like to breathe.

Swaddled in a heavy blanket with Anya at one side and a pile of tissues on the other, Shane watched the Centaurs slaughter Toronto in their own arena with a final score of five to one. His husband, who’d found a new stride this year for reasons no one was oblivious to, had scored two of those goals and assisted on another. God, Shane wished he was there with him. They’d played against each other for so long, it felt like a dream to wear the same jersey again. Just like they had all those years ago. To skate alongside each other instead of into each other. Sure, there’d been a certain excitement in facing off, in competing. They hadn’t stopped, of course. Their bets just looked a little different now.

Playing against each other was where they’d started, and it had shaped their dynamic, but they’d begun something new playing on the Centaurs together. Something that reflected the progress they’d made and the vows they’d taken. 

Pride tangled with jealousy as he watched his team skate into a pile of grins and cheers, burying himself deeper into the couch when the camera zoomed in and the commentator made a reference to their missing center.

When they began to skate to the bench, Shane flicked from Sportsnet to Apple TV and clicked on Ted Lasso. Two episodes left. Enough to sustain him until he inevitably fell asleep for what would be the third time today. Sniffling into a tissue, he tossed the remote across the cushions and tried to distract himself with the antics of a quirky soccer coach that Ilya had called “hot but in a weird way” as he fought to manage an unruly team with the power of friendship.

To his relief, Shane was engrossed enough in the plot that he had managed not to think about his clogged nose or throbbing head for a total of fifty-two minutes.

Then his phone rang to the tune of a Bad Bunny song, and an involuntary groan slipped out as he aimlessly searched for the device beneath the heavy fabric draped across the couch.

Finally, he found it, choosing the speaker option and tossing it into his lap. He didn’t have the energy to hold it to his ear. “You looked great out there tonight.”

Ilya still sounded breathless, likely fresh from speaking to the press. “You watched?”

“Obviously,” Shane said, blowing his nose. “Your knee still hurting? Your last shot was a bit slow.”

“What is it you call this?” The rustle of gear carried over the line. “Compliment sandwich? You sound like Yuna.”

He laughed, but it turned into a cough. His response was dry, hoarse. “I’m going to tell her you said that.”

“I will text her myself,” Ilya countered. “Did you finish the soup she made you?”

“Hold on a second,” Shane said, sliding out from beneath the blanket. It took him longer than he thought it would to muster the energy to cross the floor, grab a can of ginger ale from the fridge, and return to the couch. The soup remained untouched in the fridge, but he’d tell Ilya he’d finished it to keep him from worrying on the way home. A low groan slipped out as he settled back into the soft cushions, returning from what felt like a marathon. “Sorry. I was just grabbing it. I’m back now. When’s your flight?”

The silence stretched long enough that Shane wondered if he’d hung up.

“Ilya?” he asked, grabbing his phone. No, he was definitely still there. He could clearly hear their teammates yelling about a bad call over the playlist Ilya had curated blasting from a Bluetooth speaker. Louder than that, he could hear the breathing he knew better than his own. “Hello?”

Finally, Ilya spoke, but the jovial post-game ease had vanished from his tone. “You watched soccer show without me?”

Shane glanced up at the screen where the last few minutes of the finale were still playing. He scrambled to grab the remote and paused the episode. “Barely. A couple minutes.”

“Manchester just won the game!” Ilya replied through a half-yell, the adrenaline of their game still pumping through his blood. “That is definitely the last episode, Hollander!”

“Relax, Ilya,” Shane said, sitting up straighter. “We can watch it again when you get home.”

He could picture the frown on his face and almost felt bad for being the one to cause it. Almost. But it was just a silly TV show, so he wasn’t going that far.

Ilya didn’t seem to agree. “You already know everything that happen! It’s not fun anymore. Basically the same thing as watching it alone. Actually, no. It’s worse.”

Shane’s lips curled into a reluctant smile. “Don’t you think you’re being a little dramatic?”

That only seemed to convince Ilya that he wasn’t being dramatic enough, rendering him completely silent.

“You have to forgive me,” Shane tried, softening his tone. The one he used to get what he wanted, reserved only for his husband, and he really hoped that he wasn’t on speakerphone for anyone else to bear witness to it.  “I’m sick.”

There was a rustling noise before someone said, “Hollzy?”

Shane’s eyebrows furrowed. “Hayes?”

“Hey,” Wyatt said, sounding equally confused. “Uh, how you holding up?”

“I’ll live,” Shane quipped. “Can you put Rosanov back on the phone?”

“Um…” Whispers he couldn’t make out carried through the line before Wyatt cleared his throat. “So, no. I guess? He doesn’t want to talk to you. Something about an ultimate betrayal.”

Shane groaned, and now he sounded like the dramatic one. The conversation had drained what little energy he had left, and all he wanted to do was to tell Ilya that he loved him, and that he wanted him home, because he didn’t feel so awful when he was here. He rested his head back against the cushion. “Is he actually pissed?”

“I’ll be honest,” Wyatt said, and there was a pinch of sympathy in his tone. “He looked less upset when the ref missed Toronto’s offside for the third time.”

Shane snorted weakly.

“I gotta go, Hollz. Hope you feel better by Thursday. We need you there.”

“I’ll be there,” Shane said, pinching the bridge of his nose. He didn’t really care if he was running a fever of one hundred and three. He wasn’t missing another game.

Wyatt added nervously, “He’s telling me to hang up.”

“What an asshole,” Shane muttered. “Night, Hayes. Good game tonight.”

“Thanks,” Wyatt said, hesitation lingering before the line went dead.

Were they actually fighting about Ted fucking Lasso? Shane buried his face in his hands and let out a long groan. Maybe he should’ve picked something else to watch, but it was right there, and it said continue watching, and it was so easy that how could he not? Plus, he’d been dying to know who was going to win the final match, because it turned out soccer was way more fun to watch when it was fictional.

Then he remembered the way Ilya had casually mentioned looking forward to the finale, how he’d bought a tub of Ben and Jerry’s for the occasion. Cookie dough flavored. It was still unopened in the freezer.

Okay. Maybe he’d fucked up.

But didn’t he get a free pass? He had the flu, for fuck’s sake. So why did his stomach kind of hurt now? That wasn’t a symptom he remembered having before. And why was he desperately wishing he could erase the past hour so they could watch the episodes together instead? Like, not in a theoretical way, but in a is-it-scientifically-possible way? It would’ve been more fun together. Ilya’s commentary was equal parts distracting and hilarious, and even if Shane missed half of what was happening, he always ended up laughing until his cheeks hurt.

And just last week, he’d caught Ilya making a shitty sign for the Centaur’s locker room, the same one Ted Lasso had taped above the door in the show.

“Shit,” Shane muttered, grabbing his phone and calling Ilya back. It went straight to voicemail.

Okay, fine. Maybe he deserved that. It couldn’t hurt to try again, though.

He typed out a quick text: I’m the asshole.

Then, because it didn’t feel like enough reassurance, he added, If it helps, I’m so loopy off cough syrup that I probably won’t remember anything anyway.

A few minutes passed while Shane dragged a heavy hand through Anya’s fur, petting her in long strokes as he tried to calm the tightness in his chest, fighting the urge to triple-text his husband. Guilt was an emotion he’d grown friendly with over the years, but when it was owed to Ilya, it felt like a whole different beast.

A breath of relief slipped from his lips when his phone finally vibrated.

Ilya wrote back: I do not like being angry with you.

Shane sent a picture of his hand buried in Anya’s fur, his wedding ring gleaming beneath the flash. Beneath it, he added, I’m sorry.

Unfair, Ilya replied. You cannot bribe my forgiveness with Anya and pretty hands.

But Ilya called him minutes later, and Shane spent the rest of the night telling him about the episodes he’d missed. About the parts Ilya would have laughed at, and the ones that made Shane roll his eyes. Ilya didn’t complain about the sniffling or the coughing, either. And when Shane finally fell asleep on the couch, mid-conversation and still holding his phone, Ilya stayed on the other end until his battery died.

2. July 2022

Sunrise stretched over the horizon, setting the cottage aglow with soft morning light through the thin curtains. At his feet, Anya stretched out, paws straight up. To his right, Shane tugged the sheets over his eyes and mumbled something about sleeping in.

But Ilya stood no chance of getting any more rest, because he was pretty sure that Shane had just been kissing some stranger in a blurry bar while a song he didn’t know played over the speakers, making it impossible for him to hear Ilya yelling from across the crowded room. Not to mention, his limbs had been frozen in place, forcing him to watch it all happen from a distance. When Shane had finally hcome up for air, he’d looked over his shoulder and smiled.

He’d fucking smiled.

Something angry twisted in Ilya’s stomach, and he shoved the sheets aside, climbing out of bed without so much as wishing his husband a good morning. Not while the image of Shane’s perfect lips on another man still cycled on repeat in his mind.

His footsteps landed heavy on the hardwood as Ilya stomped into the kitchen, flicking on the coffee machine. When he filled the paper sleeve, he made sure there were only enough grounds for one mug. Shane could make his own.

Dew settled over the grass outside the window, barely a ripple on the lake beyond the yard, and Ilya couldn’t appreciate a thing about the view as he leaned against the counter and listened to the drip of the machine. Had their marriage truly become so boring that Shane had felt the need to stray so soon after they’d signed the papers? The ring on his finger suddenly felt heavy, cold against his skin.

Anya joined him at the dining table minutes later, resting beneath it as Ilya gripped a pen so tightly it was shocking it hadn’t snapped yet, staring down at a newspaper crossword David had left behind. He’d never successfully filled out a puzzle, but he knew Shane had been excited to attempt it, and out of spite, he was determined to finish the entire thing before he woke.

The clue was a cold-weather jacket. Forty across. Five letters. It should have been an easy place to start, but the only thing Ilya could think to write was CHEAT.

A sleepy voice called from the hallway. “You left me.”

Ilya’s jaw tightened, his teeth grinding together. He spared a quick glance and found Shane shirtless and smiling, his boxers riding low on his hips, lines pressed into his skin where the sheets had wrinkled against his perfect form. The last season had left him toned, muscles carved in all the right places.

Ilya nearly sprinted across the room, but no. The kiss. The club.

He returned his attention to the crossword.

“You made coffee already?” Shane’s pace picked up as he headed toward the pot. “It’s… empty. You drank a whole pot? How long have you been awake?”

He hadn’t made a full pot, and he’d been waiting for this moment, so why didn’t it feel as satisfying as he’d hoped? 

Because it had been a dream. 

He’d figured that out a few minutes after waking. But God, it felt so real. The knife lodged between his ribs was as sharp as the ones in the drawer, and the pit in his stomach wasn’t imagined, either.

He didn’t turn around when Shane’s soft footsteps crossed the kitchen, warm hands sliding around his neck, drifting down his chest as Shane leaned in from behind and pressed a kiss to his neck. “Weren’t you the one talking about staying in bed all summer?”

Ilya’s eyes watered with the urge to turn around and capture Shane’s lips with his own.

Shane lifted his head, peeking over Ilya’s shoulder. “Forty across is parka.”

Ilya snapped. “I almost had it.”

The outburst brought Shane’s roaming hands to an instant stop. “Wow. Um. I’m sorry.”

Ilya should have been the one apologizing. He was punishing his husband for something he hadn’t done, something he didn’t even know had happened in the late hours of the night while they’d both slept soundly. A version of Shane who’d never existed had been tongue-deep in a stranger on a dance floor, while Ilya, for some stupid reason, had been glued to the ground beneath his feet. Unable to break them apart. Unable to drive his fist into that stranger’s cheek for having the nerve to lay a hand on what wasn’t his to touch.

“Did I do something?” Shane asked quietly, rounding the table and tugging a chair out.

Ilya choked on a humorless laugh.

“Alright,” Shane said, carefully. “What am I missing?”

Ilya leveled him with a glare. “Our marriage. It is boring you? You need to find other people to make puppy dog eyes at?”

“I don’t-” Shane shook his head. “What?”

This was ridiculous and he knew it, but he couldn’t shake the goddamn picture from his mind. He pushed away from the table, making a quick exit through the patio doors and into the brisk morning air. That was something about Canada he’d never said out loud. The air felt cleaner. Fresher. It almost pulled him free of his acute frustration, until Shane followed him onto the deck with his hands raised.

Exasperation tuggd at Shane’s features when he asked again, “Can you please explain to me what’s going on?”

“You tell me!” Ilya spun around, nearly distracted by the sight of his half-dressed husband bathed in early sunlight. How could he ever share him? He wouldn’t. If it wasn’t Ilya that he wanted anymore, he’d leave. Put himself out of his misery. Or he’d find a way to change his husband’s mind, remind him why they’d gotten themselves into this decade-long mess in the first place. “Answer question, Shane.”

“But it’s a dumb fucking question,” Shane hissed, and Ilya was grateful there were no neighbors close enough to hear this ridiculous argument.

He pinched the bridge of his nose, eyes shut tight. Whatever this was, he needed desperately to get it under control. It wasn’t even real. When he looked up, Shane was still standing there, waiting for him to explain why he’d seemingly lost his mind.

“Forget it,” Ilya grunted. The ugly feeling would pass eventually. He’d had bad days before, and he’d hidden the truth of those with expert precision. This wasn’t so different. But then he remembered the promise he’d made Shane, that he’d try to let him know when he’d tripped into the inky shadows of his own mind. To say something when he hit a snag, even if he wasn’t in the right headspace to talk about it, because Shane hadn’t wanted Ilya to feel alone.

So he drank him in, shirtless and ruffled, and asked quietly, “You are happy, yes?”

“Right now?” Shane blurted, wide-eyed. “Right now, I’m just pretty fucking confused.”

Ilya sighed.

From experience, he knew Shane wouldn’t let this go easily. They’d spent too many years not talking about the important things, and their marriage had become a never-ending cycle of making up for lost time. If he didn’t confess, he worried his husband would keep looking at him like that.

So he sucked in a breath and muttered, “I had a dream.”

“Okay,” Shane said, slowly inching across the deck. “In this dream, were you also being a cryptic asshole?”

Ilya glared at him, but the potency was lacking. “No. You were asshole.”

Confusion flickered into understanding, and for a moment, Ilya thought he might get away with his tantrum. Then Shane’s eyes narrowed. “So, wait. You’re being a dick because I was first… in your dream?”

“It sounds bad,” Ilya admitted.

Then Shane laughed. Loud. A little wild. “Oh my god. What did I do? You’re, like, actually worked up about this.”

The memory replayed, but it was already softening around the edges, drifting back toward whatever corner of the mind stored dreams best left alone. All it had left behind was a bruise on his pride. Of course Shane hadn’t been doubting their marriage. It was hard enough to get him into a club, let alone flirting with another man. But Shane didn’t need to know the mental journey Ilya had taken. He refused to hand over that kind of ammunition. It was embarrassing enough that he’d let it go this far, let alone saying it out loud.

“Come on,” Shane teased as Ilya crossed the distance, slipping his hands around Shane’s waist. “Tell me.”

“Can’t. Is bad luck,” Ilya murmured into his neck, hiding the blush he knew had crept into his cheeks.

“That’s only if you want it to come true,” Shane snickered, still pressing for an answer, but Ilya knew he wouldn’t last much longer. Not when Ilya knew exactly where to touch, where to kiss. He threaded his fingers through Shane’s messy hair, giving a gentle tug. With his other hand, he pressed into the curve of Shane’s back, guiding him inward until there were only inches between them. Until he could feel Shane growing eager beneath the thin fabric of his sweatpants, and felt himself respond in kind.

He tipped Shane’s head back and kissed along his jaw. “It will come true over my dead body.”

“That bad?” Shane murmured, but his focus was already slipping. His eyelids fluttered, heavy with want, and the corner of his mouth curved upward in expectation.

Ilya nearly growled when their lips brushed. This was exactly what he’d needed. The physical reminder that Shane had always melted under his touch, that he’d never seen him give himself over to anyone the way he did to Ilya. To cement the sweet taste of that assurance, he skimmed his mouth over Shane’s freckles and whispered into his ear, “How brave are you feeling this morning, Hollander?”

Goosebumps rippled along Shane’s neck beneath his palm. “Do you mean,” He breathed, “out here?”

And maybe Ilya had gone too far, but before he could revoke his suggestion, Shane was dropping. Quickly. Hungrily. To his knees, on the hard deck. Fingers curled around Ilya’s waistband, tugging them around his thighs. His gasp came out short, sharp. “Oh fuck, Shane.” 

He paused long enough to look up at Ilya through dark lashes, face flushed. As if he was asking for forgiveness, or permission, or both. He kept his fingers tightly wound through Shane’s hair, offering one enthusiastic nod. 

By the afternoon, Ilya had forgotten what he’d dreamed about at all.

3. December 2022

“No hockey,” David said for the third time. It was his dad’s one rule on Christmas. No shop talk until Boxing Day.

Never mind that everyone in the living room, dressed in matching plaid pajamas and pleasantly full from turkey dinner and whipped-cream-topped pie, was either an active player, a former one, or the world’s biggest fan. Never mind that Yuna was practically biting her tongue, or that Shane was visibly itching to gather her thoughts on the Centaurs’ new line structure. David cut them off before they could even begin.

The only person who didn’t seem bothered either way was Ilya. He held out a bottle of Stolichnaya to David, who smiled and raised his glass in offering, “Why not? It’s Christmas.” 

“Really shouldn’t be drinking during the season,” Shane muttered, but he knew it was a lost cause. Not only had David already banned the word ‘season,’ earning him a chiding remark, Ilya had never monitored his diet like Shane had. Not that it mattered. He was still a rocket on the ice, his shots fast and precise, his muscles toned and endurance lasting, even if the alcohol lingered into the next morning. 

Regardless, when he raised an eyebrow at Shane, hazel eyes gleaming beneath a loose brown curl, a playful smile tugging at his cheeks, he was powerless to resist. “Fine. Just a little.” 

David cheered. “That’s the spirit!” 

Yuna bit down a little harder on her tongue.

“Yuna,” Ilya said gently, turning toward Shane’s mom. Shane smiled despite himself. She didn’t stand a chance any more than he did. “Red or white?”

“Red,” she said, and he watched in real-time as her resolve slipped away. “Thank you, sweetheart.”

“You will need it,” Ilya replied, reaching for the bottle. “Board games with Shane are… intense.”

Shane’s gaze shot up from where he was meticulously organizing his monopoly pieces. “They are not.”

Ilya didn’t even look back. “They are. You play to win, solnyshko.” Then, quieter, through a smile, “One of many reasons I love you.”

That didn’t make any sense, and Shane stared up at his husband, trying to decipher his meaning “Why else would we play?”

It was David who coughed a laugh. “To have fun?”

Yuna rolled her eyes as Ilya set the glass of wine down in front of her, and Shane didn’t miss the knowing look between the two. He wanted to be annoyed at their conspiring energy, but he couldn’t when Ilya was wearing the chain he’d gifted him that morning, knowing their picture sat in the locket. Knowing he’d been looking forward to the holidays for weeks, not simply because it offered them a three-day break between games, but because he silently loved moments like this. He didn’t have to tell Shane in any explicit words, because the contentment was etched in his features. The lack of tension, the absence of worry.

But then thye rolled the dice, and Shane forgot immediately about the warm fuzzies, because Ilya wasn’t wrong about one thing. He really wanted to win.

An hour later, Shane had the orange set and Ilya had the red, and they each had two railroads. It seemed like a stalemate, until Shane landed on the last property yet to be purchased, Atlantic Avenue, making it impossible for Ilya to complete the set he’d been working on. He knew his smile had grown smug, but he couldn’t seem to wipe it from his face.

“You did not roll six,” Ilya said, pointing at the dice. “That was five. I saw it.”

Shane traded a stack of cash for the property, setting it alongside his other cards. “What are you talking about? Two threes. That’s exactly what I rolled.”

“Liar,” his husband replied, pointing at B&O Railroad. “You roll five. You saw that you owe me fifty dollars. Then you flipped dice.”

Shane scoffed, levelling him with disbelief. “You think I would cheat over fifty dollars? Ilya, look at my cash. Dad’s basically gone bankrupt hitting my properties for the past five rolls. I’m rich.”

Ilya shrugged and scooped up the dice. “Okay. We make up rules. Fine.” He tossed the dice on the table, counted the places he’d need to travel to land on Free Parking, adjusted the dice until they showed an eight, and scooted the little metal dog across the board. “There we go. Five hundred dollars, please.”

“Five hundred?” Shane blurted. “Free parking is a hundred!”

“It has always been five hundred,” Ilya stated blankly, “Which stupid Canadian rules are you playing?”

Whatever Shane had been about to say was cut off by the sight of his nefarious husband already scooping five hundred dollars from the bank. When he turned to glare at the bank moderator, he caught him sighing tiredly, half-bemused, into his palm. And when Shane looked for his mom—where was she? How long ago had she wandered off?

“Not happening,” Shane abandoned his search for back up, reaching for Ilya’s stack himself. Hands came down fast, covering it, and Ilya glared at him, wide-eyed as if outraged Shane would even try. “You’re a thief!”

“David, tell your son he is being sore loser,” Ilya said calmly, which only fueled Shane’s rage. It was probably the second drink he’d reluctantly accepted that was heightening Shane’s drive to lock Ilya in an arm hold and force him to put the money back and move his token correctly, but he managed to retain a modicum of self-respect. 

“Shane, you—” David ran a hand over his forehead, exhaling, “I don’t care. Sorry, Ilya. I tried.”

“Traitor,” Ilya muttered, grabbing one of Shane’s wrists when it tried to sneak past his defense. “You get a fake dice roll, so do I. We are even now. Yuna’s turn.”

“It was a six!” Shane groaned. “Oh my god, fine. Whatever. Mom? I swear to god if you don’t sit down and finish this game—”

His mom appeared around the corner with a bowl of popcorn and another glass of wine, faintly flushed from having given up trying to make it to Boxing Day without a hangover. She grimaced at the state of the table, the charged energy hovering over the board, and her husband, hand on his cheek, frowning at his son and son-in-law.

“I need you back in the game, Dad. This isn’t done yet,” Shane muttered, reluctantly returning his hands to his own stack while side-eyeing Ilya, who was counting his illegally obtained cash. Shane had been hoping to bankrupt him on the next round; Ilya had foolishly spent too much buying properties without building houses, leaving him vulnerable. A few unlucky rolls, and Shane could have taken out his main competitor. His rival.

“Leave your poor father alone,” Yuna said, sliding back into her seat and taking the dice from Ilya with a smile. “Thank you.”

“Don’t thank him,” Shane grumbled, but she ignored him. For once, he wished she wouldn’t be so endeared by Ilya Rozanov. He needed her on his side.

“Four,” Yuna read aloud, moving the steel shoe onto Ilya’s property. “Oh. Shoot.”

“I am sorry,” Ilya frowned, but the apology didn’t carry an ounce of guilt.

Four rounds later, Shane had landed on Ilya’s properties every turn, forcing him to trade his two railroads for cash. Both Yuna and David had declared bankruptcy, which Shane suspected might have actually been reverse-cheating. Like, they’d funneled money back into the bank just to escape the tension at the dining table and sneak off to watch Christmas movies in the living room.

Ilya leaned forward, arms braced on the table. “You are ready to admit defeat, Hollander?”

Shane rolled his head back. “This is so stupid. You cheated your way to victory and now you’re bragging?”

“You first!” Ilya chirped, and Shane couldn’t tell if he was actually angry or if he just liked giving in to this little game of back and forth. If it reminded him of being on the ice together, before the Centaurs, when they’d traded on-ice insults as their own unique form of foreplay. A secret language. Maybe Shane liked it, too. Ilya added, “Would not be in this position if you moved five instead of six.”

He gawked at Ilya, wide-eyed, lips parted in shock. “It was never a six!”

“You know what I think?” Ilya leaned back in his chair. “I think we play tie-breaker. Chess. You have a chess set?”

Shane groaned. “But you’re so good at chess.”

“Yes. And Monopoly.” Ilya shrugged. “Third option. You say: Good game, husband. You won fair and square. Now take me upstairs and rip my—”

“Ilya,” Shane hissed, but he was smiling. Fuck, he was smiling. How did Ilya manage that?

“With your teeth,” Ilya finished in a whisper, a devilish smirk on his face as he reached forward and grabbed Shane’s chin between his fingers. “Yes?”

“I’m not saying that,” Shane insisted, but it lacked conviction, and he’d already begun to forget why he was so mad. Ilya’s curls were loose, his tongue was looser, and a warmth was flooding Shane from the outside in, reaching his core with a heated insistence. And his husband wasn’t relenting, fingers brushing his jaw, over his pulse point, another sneaking beneath the table to squeeze his thigh. 

Fuck it.

He leaned over, brushing his lips to Ilya’s. Dropping his voice to a low whisper, he murmured, “Good game, asshole. You won. Now take me upstairs, and rip off these stupid pajama pants.” He nipped Ilya’s ear. “With your teeth.”

And then Ilya was pushing his chair out from the table before Shane could even react. The legs scraped loudly against the floor, and from the living room, his mom called out, “Someone finally win?”

Ilya’s eyes lit up with amusement and Shane glared at him. “Don’t you dare.”

“We have called a truce,” Ilya shouted back, smothering a laugh. “Both winners tonight.”

“If you’re lucky,” Shane murmured, but Ilya’s fingers were already sliding beneath his shirt, tracing teasing paths across his chest, and he knew he didn’t stand a chance pretending to resist. Not after days of sitting at a polite distance, not when he was itching to crawl into bed and see how quietly they could still manage to be, even after all these years.

“Oh, I am very lucky,” Ilya murmured, fingers drifting lower, and Shane swatted them away with a grin.

It took all of two minutes to offer brief goodnights before they were racing each other up the stairs like rookies again.

4. February 2023

It was one in the morning, and Ilya still hadn’t come home.

This was far past Shane’s self appointed bedtime, but he couldn’t sleep if he drank half a bottle of NyQuil. The thought of his husband in a crowded club dragged up memories better left buried, and while they’d come far from that version of their life, and while he trusted Ilya to an extent that was, frankly, a little terrifying, a thread of worry still pulled at him.

Because Ilya was out there having fun. Dancing and drinking, probably brushing off the advances from pretty people in skin-tight clothing. It wasn’t that Shane thought he’d ever go as far as to betray their vows, but Ilya was a flirt by nature. Enjoyed the thrill of it, the chase of it. Flourished in a world that had never fit Shane.

Things Shane now felt too old for, even when he did join. He could barely summon the energy to stay for a single beer after most games before he was daydreaming about comfortable clothes, going home to dissect plays their coach had prepped, tweaking meal plans, or finishing a stupid crossword puzzle.

Plain and simple, he was boring.

Ilya had said it many times, years ago, laughing, tugging Shane into his lap. You are like old man already. Shane had laughed too, because it had felt tender, fond. Like Ilya saw him, and loved him anyway. But what if Ilya had begun to resent that? What if that’s why he was still out, trying to feel young again when Shane treated thirty like fifty?

He never complained, of course. Their life had become a steady rhythm together. Playing games together. Coming home together. Walking Anya together. Running charities and camps, showing up for events, building something solid and warm and dependable. Shane was boring through all of it, and Ilya teased, but he never complained.

Still, Shane sometimes wondered if teasing was just a soft reminder that Ilya wanted more. Maybe it was the exhaustion talking, or the too many coffees he’d downed to stay awake, or the insecurities rising fresh to the surface because he relied on Ilya to quiet those nagging thoughts. Either way, the doubt had taken shape.

Now it was 1:04, and there were two unanswered texts on his phone, and Shane was spiraling. Because shouldn’t a good partner notice when their husband started to feel restless? Shouldn’t he have seen it coming if Ilya was growing tired of the same boring routine?

Compared to where they’d started, a life of constant adrenaline, of stolen moments and secret glances, of chasing a high whenever they could steal time together, maybe this quieter version of life felt… muted, to Ilya. Maybe his husband had settled for something predictable and realized he missed the chaos.

It was hard to imagine, when the chaos had grown weary in those final months, so desperate to be out and together in the world that when that stupid fan mail video had leaked, he’d almost felt a little relieved that it was all over. Ilya had too, hadn’t he?

But he had never been quiet about what he wanted before they’d made things official, before they’d given their relationship a label. He’d once chased excitement like it was oxygen, like he needed a constant IV drip of sensation, and Shane was just another stop along the way.

And it wasn’t like Shane hadn’t tried to keep up, once or twice. But Shane had always been content with Ilya. Just Ilya. It had only ever been Ilya.

His husband, on the other hand, had lived a much larger life. More people, more stories.

Was Shane enough?

The haunting question settled in around 1:30, when a drunk text from Troy came through with a blurry picture of Ilya’s eyes, a little glassy, somewhere on the dance floor. Looking electric and alive, cheeks flushed, a smile tugging at his lips. He was having the time of his life.

Without Shane.

And no, Shane wasn’t going to storm into the club. He wasn’t going to ruin his husband’s night, because that was exactly what he was trying to avoid. Shane didn’t want to become the reason the fun stopped. Definitely didn’t want Ilya to start associating him with control and responsibility and the pestering voice that said maybe we should go home now.

With his credit card flat on the dining table, Shane typed his information into the reservations page for the closest hotel to where Ilya was. He felt ridiculous with every frantic step across their bedroom, folding a few items of clothing and toiletries into a small overnight bag, packing for a version of himself that didn’t exist anymore.

Then he did something he hadn’t done in a long, long time and texted Ilya the name of a hotel.

Shane: Fairmont Château Laurier
Shane: 1 Rideau St

Ilya answered minutes later.

Ilya: babyyyy
Ilya: i lost track of time
Ilya: what is this

Rather than answer, Shane waited until he pulled into the parking lot, heart lodged somewhere near his throat, nervous anticipation prickling beneath his skin, and sent Ilya his live location. A trick they’d used early on, back when discretion had been on the forefront of their minds and every meeting was a risk to their privacy. 

“For Hollander,” he said to the receptionist, whose tired eyes brightened at the sight of him standing nervously across the counter.

Her recognition sparked another idea.

He texted Ilya the room number from the card slip.

Shane: Room 1304
Shane: The front desk recognized me
Shane: You’ll have to be discreet

The whole country knew about their marriage, and Shane felt vaguely absurd typing it out. But Ilya wanted fun, and they’d had fun back then, hadn’t they? It wasn’t the same pleasure as waking up every morning tangled together, a privilege Shane still didn’t take for granted, but maybe Ilya had grown used to it. Maybe the familiarity of it all had dulled the novelty of it.

The thought made his stomach twist as he headed toward the elevator with renewed determination.

To remind Ilya that he could still be fun, too.

Even if he didn’t know how to dance. Even if more than two shots made his head spin. Even if he preferred calm nights and mornings that started when the sun rose, and health drinks and salads over vodka and cigarettes. He could still surprise him, couldn’t he? Meet him halfway, if that was what Ilya needed.

The door clicked open, and Shane stepped into the hotel room, already missing their bed the moment his eyes landed on the crisp sheets and overstuffed pillows. They spent so much of their lives on the road. The last place he wanted to be was another hotel.

But Ilya was only minutes away, evident from the location he’d shared in return, along with a string of question marks.

Shane stripped down to his boxers and shut the curtains.

Waited until the knock came, then pulled the door open.

Ilya’s eyes widened at the sight of Shane’s bare chest, momentarily stunned. The scent of liquor and perfume clung to his loose T shirt and mussed curls; he brushed them back with one hand as he stepped cautiously inside. His gaze flicked around the room, as if half expecting a camera crew to jump out and declare it all a joke, before settling back on Shane with confusion etched across his expression.

Shane backed him against the door, sliding his palms up Ilya’s chest. He pressed a kiss to his neck, tongue tracing warm skin. Ilya remained still beneath him, still speechless, when Shane murmured, “Missed you, Rozanov.”

His partner stiffened, and Shane had the strange, sinking sense that he’d misstepped. But he’d come this far, and the insecurities still twisted beneath his ribs, so he added, “What’s it been? Two months?”

This was stupid.

So, so stupid.

Ilya caught his wrist. “Shane, lyubov moya. Tell me what is going on. Do you need doctor? You have hit your head?”

Warmth flooded Shane’s cheeks. He used his free hand to reach for Ilya’s belt buckle, fumbling without the help of the other. “Not Shane,” he muttered. “Hollander. Don’t make this weird, Rozanov. It’s just fun, right?”

Ilya reacted before Shane could loosen the clasp.

In one smooth motion, despite the drinks he’d clearly had, Ilya slipped a hand behind Shane’s back and turned him, pressing him flat against the door. Shane’s eyes widened as Ilya looked at him like he truly couldn’t understand what was happening.

“Fun?”

“Yeah,” Shane said, a little breathless. He shifted his hips forward an inch, looking for friction, trying to shake that look off his husband’s face. That wasn’t why he’d come here. “We won’t see each other for a while. Should make it count, shouldn’t we?”

Ilya’s jaw tightened at the brush of Shane’s hips against his. Catching the flicker of arousal, Shane leaned in, wrapping a hand around the back of Ilya’s neck and pulling him into a kiss he deepened without hesitation. Tongues sliding, hungry and familiar, his fingers curling in Ilya’s hair while he surrendered to the certainty of it. This part required no stiff performing, no awkward role-playing. This part, Shane knew as well as breathing.

Ilya’s teeth caught his bottom lip, and Shane moaned softly into his mouth. But then he bit a little harder than Shane had been prepared for, and he yanked back. Lifted a hand to his lip and checked for blood. “Asshole, what was that for?” 

“There is my husband,” Ilya replied, his tone low, a little dangerous, “I thought maybe body-double, but no.”

Shane nearly groaned. Why wasn’t this working?

“Your husband is boring,” Shane murmured, already pressing back into Ilya’s warmth. He slid his hands beneath his shirt, lifting it slowly, his gaze tracing the familiar lines of muscle along his stomach. “Forget about him tonight.”

It hurt, a little, to say the words out loud. But Ilya wasn’t pushing him away. Wasn’t resisting when Shane tugged the shirt over his head and tossed it aside. Didn’t stop him when he returned to the buckle, this time with both hands, making quick work of the belt.

“This is what you want, yes?” Ilya palmed himself through the fabric, slow and deliberate, and Shane’s mouth went dry at the sight. “Want to suck me? Make me feel good?”

Shane was already dropping to his knees, the familiar give of hotel carpet softening the descent. He threaded his fingers around the waistband of Ilya’s pants, working them down over his thighs.

But Ilya reached down, sliding two fingers beneath Shane’s chin and tilting his face upward.

“Not yet.”

Shane nearly whimpered.

“First, want to hear you say,” Ilya said, his voice dropping lower, his accent curling around each word, “I love you, Ilya. Am so glad I married you, Ilya.”

“Fuck off,” Shane hissed, but Ilya’s hand moved to cup his cheeks, fingers firm, leaving no room to look away. Something sagged in Shane’s chest as the realization settled in. Ilya wasn’t buying any of it. Not for a second.

“Why… why are you making this so hard?”

Ilya blinked down at him. “You really want this? To pretend we are hiding again?”

The word hiding jolted through Shane like a live wire. He shook his head. “No. Not hiding. Just… it was fun for you, right? The sneaking around? I thought…” The rest caught in his throat, embarrassment sealing it behind lock and key. “Forget it. This was dumb.”

He stood and turned toward the wall, his adrenaline fading and making room for something that felt lonely. It wasn’t unfamiliar. After years of meeting in secret, Shane had come to know it well. The drop in his chest after Ilya slipped out the door, knowing months might pass before they saw each other again. The sore ache behind his ribs when he started to miss him, with no way to explain to friends or family why his mood had soured. The constant anxiety, not just of getting caught, but of plans falling apart, leaving him restless and hungry for longer than he’d prepared for.

No, he didn’t want this.

He turned back, the words spilling out before he could stop them. “Am I boring you?”

“Is definitely not boring.” Ilya raised an eyebrow, then, seeing the frustration tug at Shane’s features, stepped closer. “You did this because… what? You think I am bored of you?”

Did it sound stupider now?

Shane groaned, hiding his face behind his hands. “I don’t know. Just answer the fucking question.”

The silence that followed made him feel dizzy, until Ilya’s familiar touch found his bare chest, coaxing his gaze up. Ilya was hiding a faint smile. “I married you, Hollander. You think I do not know what I signed up for?”

“But when you’re out with the team,” Shane continued quietly, “you don’t miss it at all? Being free to do whatever you wanted?”

Ilya’s lips parted, releasing a slow breath, like he was sorting through a dictionary for the right words, holding Shane’s heartbeat hostage. Then he cupped Shane’s cheek, thumb brushing over his freckles. “You are talking like I do not do whatever I want. I do what I want, Shane. What I want is you. Always.”

Relief flooded through him like morphine through a drip. “You’re sure? You don’t miss it at all? You’re not mad that I don’t go out dancing with you guys until—what time is it, anyway—”

“Past your bedtime,” Ilya murmured, leaning in and brushing his lips gently against Shane’s, careful where he’d bitten the soft skin. “What I miss is you, and Anya, and home. So, Hollander. We stay at this terrible hotel, or you take me back to my favorite things?”

A low laugh slipped out of Shane. “Yeah?”

“The rookie drank more than his tiny American body can handle,” Ilya added, fingers sliding into Shane’s hair. “I was not out so late because I am bored. I stayed because he would not get into taxi.”

“Fucking rookies,” Shane mumbled, eyelids fluttering shut, melting into the touch like balm on a bruise after hours spent spiraling through worst-case scenarios, only to realize he’d forgotten that sometimes things turned out better than he’d hoped. “You’re a good captain.”

“Now I must make sure another terrible player gets home,” Ilya huffed, theatrical. “Being captain is very hard.”

“Shut up.” Shane shoved him, lacking any real force, and was glad when Ilya stepped forward instead of back, capturing his lips again. He’d take a thousand more, if only to remind himself that maybe he was boring, and Ilya liked it that way.

“Maybe first we test out the bed? Have not been to this hotel before,” Ilya said into the curve of his neck, playful. “What do you think, Hollander?”

Shane reached back, glaring. “Stop.”

“Will be sooo long until next time, yes?” Ilya teased, walking him back until his calves met the mattress and he fell onto the semi-soft surface.

“You’re the worst,” Shane grinned. He meant to tell Ilya they might still get their money back if they left without making a mess, but then his husband was crawling over him, peppering kisses across his chest, and yeah… they should probably test out the bed.

5. December 2023

Colorful decorations hung haphazardly from the walls, upbeat music spilling from the speaker in the living room. In less than five minutes they’d watch the ball drop on-screen, and nearly every man on the Voyageurs’ roster, along with a scattering of partners, would clink glasses and cheer the new year in. But Ilya was having a hard time focusing on any of it when he scanned the room and found it Shane-less.

Barrett looked up at him over the makeshift beer pong table they’d set up in the living room. “Any New Year’s resolutions, Rozy?”

Put a tracker on his husband, maybe.

He plucked the plastic ball from a Solo cup and shook the beer off, not bothering to stop the droplets from flicking onto Shane’s favorite rug. If he wanted to keep it clean, he’d be here waiting for midnight to strike.

“Win Cup,” Ilya replied instead, closing one eye and tossing the ball. It missed by a foot. Somewhere between his fourth and fifth drink his aim had taken a turn for the worse, but that hadn’t stopped him trying. “What else?”

“That’s a boring answer,” Troy groaned, turning toward where Boodram was arguing with Dykstra over the playlist. “Bood, tell him that’s a shit resolution.”

“Huh?” Boodram swayed a little as he turned to face Ilya. “Oh, yeah. No way, Rozy. It’s gotta be something less… obvious. Like, of course we’re winning the Cup. It’s more like ‘quit smoking’ or ‘cut sugar.’”

“Have already quit smoking,” Ilya said matter-of-factly, knocking Troy’s throw out of the way mid-flight before adding, “And Shane cut sugar for both of us.”

“Hey!” Troy shouted. “Unfair!” 

But his complaint was cut off by the countdown on-screen, and someone cranked the volume as the room broke into slightly mistimed chants. Arms wrapped over shoulders, hands thrown into the air.

Someone tried to pull Ilya into the crowd, but he slipped away instead, murmuring something about needing a drink before fleeing the main room and ducking into the kitchen. Liquor fuzzed the edges of his vision, but he’d perfected the art of appearing mostly sober. With a frown etched across his face, he crossed to the sink, turned the tap to cold, and scooped water into his palms, leaning down to splash it over his cheeks.

When he lifted his head, movement outside the window overlooking their large back lawn caught his attention. He blinked. Shane was sitting on the edge of the patio, a slobbery tennis ball in hand, watching as Anya ran back and forth in anticipation of the throw.

Water dripped onto his shirt as he spun on his heel, slid open the patio doors, and stepped into the frigid winter air.

“I have resolution for you,” Ilya called out, greeted by a pair of wide dark eyes. “Next time you throw party, remember to show up.”

“Ilya,” he said softly. “You scared me.”

“You did not expect me to come looking for you when everyone is inside doing countdown and I am standing alone?”

“Countdown?” Shane asked, blinking hard. Then his lips parted in an “o.” “Oh my god, I totally forgot. Did I miss it?”

Timed perfectly with his question, a cacophony of cheers and hollers filtered through the wall. Realization flickered across Shane’s expression. “Shit.”

“Yes,” Ilya said, tone clipped. “You miss it.”

“Come here.” Shane waved him over, flashing a soft smile, the one that made him look a little shy, cheeks lifting, eyes warming in a way Ilya had always found difficult to resist. It was that smile that had drawn him in the first time they’d met, glimpsed through a haze of cigarette smoke while he did his best to maintain his steely Russian reputation.

“This was your idea,” Ilya forced out instead, even though every instinct urged him to drop beside Shane and pull him close beneath the weight of his arm. “You plan party, hang decorations, and then hide outside when you should be inside, kissing me? Now we are cursed with year of bad luck.”

A gentle laugh slipped from Shane’s lips. “You’re drunk.”

“Why are you not?” Ilya asked, forcing his feet to remain planted. The cold seeped through his bare skin, and even the liquor wasn’t keeping him warm. He wanted Shane’s heat against him, wanted to kiss him until the chill burned off, but no. He was mad.

“I had a couple, but then…” Shane looked out over the lawn and lazily tossed the ball for Anya.

“But then you decide, why would I kiss husband at midnight when I can pout in cold and hide from my team?”

“Ilya,” Shane chided, a furrow deepening between his brows.

He was being a little childish. Probably a little petty, too. But Shane’s attempt to rein him in only sharpened the edge of his frustration. “Is it because you do not want to kiss me in front of team?”

Shane’s confusion deepened. “What?”

“We are married, Hollander,” Ilya continued, vaguely aware he was probably overreacting but lacking the inhibition to stop. “What is big deal? You think, what, they will realize you are gay? Is too late for that, I think.”

Shane pushed himself off the deck without hesitation and crossed the short distance to him, and maybe Ilya had poked the bear too hard, because now his husband looked angry too. Which was, as always, endearing as hell. The tight press of his lips. The spark behind his eyes. “You think I’m out here because I was avoiding PDA?”

“Maybe,” Ilya said, shrugging. In his defense, Shane had always been more reserved about affection in front of the boys. Not like Ilya, who would have happily made out in the change room after their last win, content to make the whole team avert their eyes. But Shane was professional, a stickler for the rules, and Ilya respected that. Understood that Shane had his boundaries, and once they were home, those boundaries loosened in ways Ilya had never known with anyone else. His husband, for all his reservations and the timid facade, was up for almost anything. Most of the time, it was Shane who suggested it.

“That’s ridiculous,” Shane said, shaking his head as he placed his palms on Ilya’s arms, frowning. “And you’re freezing.”

“I’m fine,” he argued.

“No you’re not. Get inside,” Shane urged, but Ilya didn’t budge.

“Tell me,” he said, and because he couldn’t resist a moment longer, he wrapped his fingers around Shane’s hand. 

Shane’s bottom lip slid briefly beneath his teeth, and Ilya felt a flicker of worry about what he might have missed. They’d spent Christmas wrapped around each other for three straight days, snowed in by a storm that had blanketed Ottawa in a thick layer of white. There’d been no hint that he’d been… unhappy.

“Sometimes,” Shane said slowly, “when it’s crowded, and I can hear six conversations happening at the same time, not to mention whatever terrible music Dykstra has playing right now, and those two idiots on TV…”

“Andy and Anderson,” Ilya cut in, if only because he’d spent the morning making sure they had the right channel.

“Right.” He ran his fingers over Ilya’s arm, as if subtly trying to warm him up. Like even when Ilya had come out here in a rage, Shane couldn’t turn his worry off. “When it’s loud, and it’s all at once, I feel like I can’t breathe. That sounds stupid, probably. I just… you were playing with the guys, and I didn’t want to interrupt. So I snuck out here. For a few minutes.”

Ilya’s tone softened, though a trace of bitterness still lingered, fading but not gone. “Has been half an hour.”

“Fuck,” Shane winced, stepping closer and wrapping his arms around Ilya’s shoulders. “Sorry. Can I kiss you now?”

But Ilya caught on the admission instead. “You should have told me.”

“It’s dumb,” Shane said again, his cheeks warming.

“Is not dumb,” Ilya murmured. “What is dumb is that it is already…” He tugged his phone from his pocket, checking the time. “12:03, and I have not kissed you yet.”

A small smile tugged at Shane’s lips. “So kiss me.”

Ilya shook his head. “Not yet. Come.”

“Wait,” Shane said, but Ilya was already moving, fingers wrapped around his wrist as he tugged him back inside.

He understood immediately what Shane had meant. He’d never minded a rowdy room, but from Shane’s perspective, it was a lot. Noise spilling from every corner, the way hockey players tended to shout rather than talk once the drinks were flowing and the energy was high. Whatever song was playing now carried a heavy bass that thudded through the house like it had it's own pulse.

“I’m fine,” Shane murmured when Ilya glanced back.

But Ilya wasn’t risking another disappearance, so he left Shane beneath the arch between the kitchen and living room and wove through the crowd to the speaker.

He clicked it off.

A chorus of groans and complaints rose around him.

Dykstra piped up from the far wall. “What the hell, Rozy?”

“Captain rules,” Ilya called, facing his team. “In fact, everyone be quiet for two seconds. Who has remote?”

Troy raised an eyebrow from the couch. “I do?”

“Good,” Ilya said, satisfied as the chatter dulled. Less satisfied when he spotted Shane through the crowd looking embarrassed, a little flustered. But he’d come this far, and there was no going back now. He turned to Troy, gesturing at the TV. “You can rewind?”

Troy clicked the remote, the livestream pausing before skipping back.

“Okay,” Ilya said as the screen showed the moment before the ball slipped “Now play.”

“Hollzy!” Boodram hollered. “Where the hell have you been?”

“Shut up, Bood,” Ilya said as the countdown began. “We are doing New Year again.” When the team stared at him like he’d sprouted another head, he added with his brows lifted and a slight hint of impatience, “You can count now.”

A slightly confused chant started up again. Shane was muttering something when Ilya reached him, wasting no time as he pulled him into his arms, resting his forehead against Shane’s as the numbers ticked down.

“Four…”

“This is ridiculous.”

“Three…” Ilya pressed a finger to his lips. “Play along, lyubimyy. You owe me.”

Shane smiled against his finger. “Two…”

“One,” Ilya finished, and kissed him.

The room erupted into cheers for a second time, and Ilya wasn’t sure what they were for, exactly, as laughter and a few low whistles followed, but it all faded as he slid a hand to the back of Shane’s neck and drew him closer. The tension left Shane’s shoulders without hesitation, fingers threading eagerly into Ilya’s curls as he leaned in, a hum of contentment slipping from his lips.

If they didn’t stop now, Ilya would absolutely suggest they disappear again, and this time he’d be going with him.

A soft, dazed grin spread across Shane’s face when he pulled back just enough to rest their foreheads together again. “Happy new year,” he murmured.

“Happy new year,” Ilya echoed, lowering his voice. “Next year, we hide together, yes?”

“Next year,” Shane corrected, “we make Troy host.”

6. June 2024

Ice jostled noisily in the cooler as Shane shoved it into the trunk. It still hung over the edge, like the wrong piece in a game of Tetris. With a loud sigh, he angled it to the right and tried again. Somehow, that was worse. There was no possible way to fit this cooler into the back of a ridiculously expensive sports car, and Shane had to wonder if it was worth the price tag when the trunk was smaller than the top drawer of his dresser.

Sandals slapped against the concrete as Ilya barreled down the front steps, finding Shane frowning in the driveway. “What is problem?”

“This stupid trunk is the problem,” Shane bit out, gesturing at the cooler. “Can’t we just take mine?”

They’d already had this conversation twice, but Shane caved easily when it came to his husband. He found it impossible to say no when Ilya’s hazel eyes brightened at the thought of driving his favorite sports car along the Canadian back roads, top down, summer sun on their skin, wind tangling through their hair.

He braced himself for the storm he’d weathered twice before, determined to win this time by whatever means necessary. He wasn’t above sexual favors. Instead, Ilya only shrugged. “Sure. Do not care. Whatever.”

A line tugged between his eyebrows, because Shane knew that tone. The distant look in his eyes, the lack of urgency in his kiss that morning. Worse, he hadn’t even asked Shane to slip into the shower with him.

“Hey.” Shane reached out, resting a hand on Ilya's shoulder. “You okay?”

“Yes. Of course. Beautiful day.” Ilya stared up at the blue sky, not a cloud in sight. His gaze lingered longer than felt natural, like he'd slipped inward, and Shane squeezed Ilya's arm again, prompting his attention. “What is not to be okay about? We switch to Jeep. No big deal.”

But Shane didn’t want to take the Jeep anymore. He just wanted to see Ilya smile, and if that meant leaving behind his cooler full of health drinks he could only buy at a specific organic grocery store in old Ottawa, then so be it. He’d be fine. The season had ended, anyway. He definitely wouldn’t think about them the whole time or add an extra ten minutes to his daily routine to make up for their absence.

“Forget it.” Shane brushed a hand down Ilya’s toned arm, squinting into the light, desperate for even a fraction of Ilya’s wandering attention. “You’re right. It’s a great day to drive the Porsche. I’ll just…” He turned to grab the cooler, nodding toward the open garage. “I’ll put these back in the fridge, grab Anya, and then we’ll go, okay?”

Ilya nodded absently, like he hadn’t heard a word Shane had said, and Shane resisted the urge to ask if he’d been taking his medication. It wasn’t a foolproof solution, and logically, Shane knew that. The bad days could still slip through, especially as Ilya adjusted to one prescription or prepared to switch to another. The process wasn’t linear, he reminded himself, carrying the cooler inside.

It’s fine, he repeated, stocking the fridge. Everything is going to be okay, he whispered to Anya, looping the clasp of her leash around her collar.

But just in case—

Shane crossed the kitchen to the cupboard above the stainless steel coffee machine. He inhaled slowly, as if he might talk himself out of it. Peeled back the door when it became clear his effort had failed.

There it was.

The little orange container that hadn’t been packed with the rest of his husband’s toiletries. It was barely even half-empty, just like it had been last month.

He plucked it from the shelf, staring at Ilya’s name printed across the paper label.

Why hadn’t he taken them?

A surge of conflicting emotion rushed to the surface, and Shane swallowed it down. Anger wouldn’t be productive. Neither would frustration, or the thin ribbon of panic weaving through it. This would be an easier conversation at the cottage, he decided, slipping the medication into his pocket. Things always felt slightly detached from reality there, like honesty came easier without the weight of their careers and obligations pressing at their backs.

He worked to keep his expression neutral and headed outside with Anya’s leash in hand, a bundle of fur scrambling wildly into the cramped rear seat.

“Ready?” He forced a small smile, ignoring the disappointment that arrived when he didn’t get one in return. It sharpened when he noticed the whisper of smoke curling from Ilya’s fingers. “Are you—”

“Is just one,” Ilya cut in, turning away, as if that could hide the fact that he’d slipped into an old habit. Where did he even get it? Shane hadn’t caught him smoking in months. Close to a year, if he remembered correctly. Had he bought a pack last night, when he’d taken Anya on that walk that stretched a little longer than usual? 

Shane’s fingers curled into his palms, the effort of holding his thoughts inside almost a physical effort. If it was what Ilya needed right now, then so be it. They would deal with it at the cottage. 

“Should get on the road.” He hoped that was enough to end it. Fighting the urge to wrinkle his nose, he stepped behind Ilya and wrapped his arms around his waist, pressing a kiss into the dip of his spine. Mumbling against the thin fabric of his shirt, “Love you.”

The crackle of tobacco answered him.

Shane frowned into his shoulders, then released him and slipped into the passenger seat. At the very least, driving usually lifted Ilya’s mood. Shane could hold his hand, toy with his hair while he focused on the road. Flip through his favorite songs, even the ones that gave Shane a mild headache.

Everything would be fine.

He watched the cigarette butt ground into the concrete while Ilya closed the trunk, clipped Anya’s leash to the holster in the back, and slid into the driver’s seat. There was a hard set to his jaw, his eyes hidden behind thick, tinted sunglasses. This had slowly become Ilya’s favorite time of year; he’d said so himself. But there wasn’t a trace of eager anticipation as he started the engine and reversed out of the driveway, the garage door gliding shut behind them, sealing up the two story craftsman where they’d built their new life.

About twenty seconds later, the car chimed softly.

Shane glanced at the dashboard. “You need an oil change or something?”

“No,” Ilya said, voice low.

“Is it your tires?” The chime sounded again. “Low pressure, maybe?”

Instead of answering, Ilya reached forward and turned up the volume. A Spanish pop song burst through the speakers, bright and high-tempo, wildly at odds with the atmosphere inside the car, which hovered somewhere between tense and brittle.

Was this even safe? It wasn’t like Ilya to ignore maintenance. He loved taking his cars to the dealer, if only to wander the showroom floor. With a smaller salary than he’d had in Boston, rebuilding his collection had been slow, but Shane had thought he was enjoying the clean slate.

But beneath the Latin chorus Ilya tried to use as camouflage, Shane could still hear the chime.

Then he glanced left and realized what he’d missed.

A frown pulled at his mouth. “You’re not wearing your seatbelt.”

Ilya shrugged, keeping his eyes on the road.

“Ilya.” Shane grabbed his shoulder, his tone sharper now. “Pull over and put your belt on.”

“Am not pulling over here,” Ilya shot back too quickly, gesturing toward the busy main road leading them out of the city.

“Then turn,” Shane insisted. “God, Ilya, the top is down. Do you even realize how dangerous that is?”

The question cracked something loose in his own mind. His imagination lurched toward the worst possible outcome, painting brutal, flashing images of what could happen to an unbuckled driver in a crash. Panic spiked hot and immediate in his chest, and he had to resist the instinct to grab the wheel himself.

“I’m serious,” he pressed when Ilya didn’t answer. In a few short minutes, they’d hit the highway, where cars moved too fast to predict, where one small miscalculation could end in a disaster. Desperation seeped into his voice, cracking around his husband’s name. “Ilya, please.”

Ilya’s jaw tightened, as if he couldn’t decide whether to refuse or relent. Finally, he reluctantly shifted into the far right lane and turned down a quieter side street. Even as the car slowed to a crawl, Shane’s heartbeat refused to follow.

They rolled to a stop, and Ilya reached over his shoulder with forced casualness and clicked the belt into place. “There. Happy?”

“No, I’m not fucking happy,” Shane hissed.

He lifted his hips, tugging the small orange bottle from his pocket. He knew, distantly, that this wasn’t the time or the place. But fear had taken control, smothering his rationality, and it wasn’t asking permission. A thick lump lodged in his throat as he held the bottle out between them.

“You left these at home,” he managed. “Did you… did you do it on purpose?”

Ilya stared at Shane’s open palm, revealing nothing behind the tinted lenses.

“Why—” The word faltered. Maybe he was overreacting. Maybe he was stitching together two unrelated moments because he needed them to mean something. But Ilya rarely forgot anything and that quiet, nagging voice at the back of his mind refused to be ignored. “Why didn’t you put your seatbelt on?”

Ilya was still looking at the pills, a faint line carving itself between his brows.

Slowly, carefully, Shane reached forward and slid the sunglasses from his face, finding shadows pooled beneath Ilya’s eyes.

“Fuck, Ilya. You’re supposed to tell me…” He sounded angry. That wasn’t what he’d meant. He wanted to sound soft, supportive, but it was coming out all wrong. “You need to fucking tell me, alright? When you’re feeling bad. When you stop your pills. When you get in the car and don’t feel the need to put your fucking seatbelt on.”

Ilya winced, and that was better than nothing.

But it was confirmation, too. And that, more than anything, set Shane’s chest alight. He unbuckled his own belt and slipped out onto the tree shadowed sidewalk, dragging in a breath that did nothing to steady him.

“You can’t do that!” Shane shouted, not entirely sure he recognized himself at that moment. He felt unhinged, grasping for some scrap of control. He stepped toward the car, trembling fingers curling around the edge of the door, tracing every inch of Ilya’s face. The downturn of his lips, the stray curl across his forehead. He’d kissed it all, held it all. He couldn’t picture a day when he no longer had the privilege.

“What if I wasn’t here?” Shane broke, his voice shaking. “You’d just, what, happily become roadkill? Leave me here alone? Rob me of the life we’re supposed to have together? That’s fucking selfish, Ilya, and you know it.”

His husband blinked hard. “It is not that I wanted something bad to happen. I just…” He pressed his lips together, as if the words refused to cooperate. Moisture slid down his cheek, hot and fast. “Get back in car?”

But electricity raced through Shane’s blood, too charged to settle. How dare he even flirt with the idea of losing himself, when Shane’s soul felt stitched to his in some stupid, cosmic way?

“It feels… hollow, yes?” Ilya tried. Shane could see the effort, the careful searching for a word or phrase or feeling in English that only existed in a language Shane couldn’t understand. “I wake up and I am in wonderful house with handsome husband and good job, and it is just…flat.”

“For how long?” 

Ilya looked away. “A week maybe.”

Shane stared at him, trying to understand. No, he couldn’t put himself in Ilya’s place. He had never known what it was like not to care. If anything, he cared too much. About how he was perceived. About the sport that defined him. About every macro, calorie, and carb he put into his body. About Ilya, though that could never be too much. If anything, he should have been paying closer attention. Should have noticed before it got this bad.

Guilt edged against his anger. He pulled the car door open wider and dropped to his knees on the leather seat, cupping Ilya’s face and forcing their eyes to meet, his own vision blurring.

“You don’t get to leave me, alright?”

“I was not—” Ilya started, then faltered. “It was not like that. I just… fear makes it feel less flat, yes? Maybe I chase it, without meaning to. I did not realize…” He curled his hand around Shane’s wrist, holding on. “Galina is going to be disappointed. I should not have stopped taking the medication, probably. Or skipping appointments.”

“You’ve been missing your sessions?”

“I thought…” Ilya’s hazel eyes softened at the edges. “I thought I was doing better.”

“You are,” Shane said. “You’re learning what works. How to handle the bad days. Talking to me, talking to Galina. So maybe ‘doing better’ looks a little different, but that doesn’t mean—” He drew a slow breath, finding something steady to stand on. “I freaked out. I just… please don’t leave me, okay? You can’t leave me. You can’t, because…” His voice cracked, but he pushed through. “You deserve to be here. And I need you, Ilya. I need you to see that too.”

“And if I cannot see it?”

“Then I’ll see it for you,” Shane said, a hardened resolve slipping into place. Giving him a task, a goal. Finding relief in deciding on something that he could control, that he could plan for. “I’ll tell you every day about our future. About everything there is to look forward to. Remind you of your progress. Hold your hand through the hard days. But you’ve got to tell me, okay? Because I’m a fucking idiot sometimes—”

“No,” Ilya whispered. “Lyubov moya, you are not.”

“I am,” Shane said, shaking his head. “So I’ll need your help, alright? I’d be hopeless without you.”

Ilya smiled, small and soft, and Shane felt his chest tighten at the sight. Like sunlight breaking through after weeks of grey. He leaned forward, melting into Ilya’s shoulder, arms winding around him, holding tight as if afraid he might slip through his fingers.

Anya barked from the backseat, tail thumping wildly, tongue lolling.

“So demanding,” Ilya murmured into Shane’s hair. “Like you, yes? Always so bossy. Telling me what to do.”

Shane huffed a laugh. “Shut up, Rozanov.”