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The apartment is too quiet after the game.
Shane doesn’t pace.
Ilya notices it only because his body expects movement and doesn’t get it. Shane sits on the very edge of the couch instead, elbows on his knees, head tipped forward, staring at the floor like it’s somewhere he’s supposed to be.
At first Ilya assumes it’s the usual thing. A replay. A mental autopsy. Shane worrying the same split second until it turns into something sharper than a mistake.
But the longer Ilya watches, the less he’s sure.
Shane isn’t tense. His jaw isn’t tight. His leg isn’t bouncing. He looks… loose. Unanchored. Like the focus drained out of him instead of locking in.
Ilya steps closer.
“Hey,” he says, soft, casual on purpose. He reaches out and touches Shane’s wrist. “Shane. Look at me, da?”
He expects a reaction. A blink. A sigh. Something that says Shane heard him and decided not to answer.
Nothing.
Shane’s hand is warm under his fingers but slack. Heavy. Not braced like it usually is when Shane’s fighting himself. His breathing is shallow but even, the way it gets when he’s half somewhere else.
Ilya frowns.
“Okay,” he murmurs, more to himself than anything. “We are… very quiet tonight.”
He crouches so he’s in Shane’s line of sight, searching his face. Shane’s eyes don’t snap into focus. They drift. His gaze slides past Ilya’s shoulder and then back again, like it takes effort to land anywhere.
This is not how Shane looks when he’s angry at himself.
This is not how Shane looks when he’s spiraling.
This feels… wrong. Not bad. Just unfamiliar.
“Shane,” Ilya says again, slower. “Solnyshko. You with me?”
Shane’s mouth parts slightly. His brow creases, confused, not distressed. He lifts one hand, hesitates, then lets it fall back to his knee. The movement is clumsy, unfinished.
Something twists low in Ilya’s chest.
He doesn’t know what this is. He doesn’t have a name for it. All he knows is that Shane isn’t pushing himself down.
He’s slipping.
Shane doesn’t remember deciding to stop talking.
He’s trying so hard to reply, to meet Ilya’s gaze, but Ilya’s words sound like they’re coming through Jello. Like he can’t understand them, almost like a foreign language. He recognizes the sounds, the shape of his name, the cadence, but it’s too mushy. Too far away.
What’s clear is the sound of the puck hitting the post. That sharp, ugly clang, louder than the crowd, louder than the horn. He remembers the way the bench went quiet afterward, the way the loss settled into his bones like something permanent.
And underneath all of it, older than the NHL, older than Ilya, older than logic, there’s his mom’s voice. Not yelling. Never yelling.
Again.
Focus, Shane.
You know how to do this.
Yuna never said you failed. She didn’t have to. Her expectations were immaculate, razor-sharp. Excellence was the baseline. Anything less felt like falling.
Shane learned early that love looked like attention, and attention came from doing well.
He hadn’t even turned five when he started hockey. Yuna, ever the momager, pulled strings to get him on the ice just months after his fourth birthday. He was too small for the gear. Skates wobbling. Falling constantly.
He remembers sitting on the cold rink floor, cheeks burning, hands aching inside stiff gloves. Other kids cried. He didn’t. Yuna had drilled it into him. Crying wasted time.
His mom crouched in front of him, fixing his helmet strap with efficient fingers.
“You okay?” she asked.
He nodded.
“Good,” she said, already standing. “Then get back up.”
Not cruel. Just forward-moving. Always forward.
Now, years later, the missed shot pulls all of that up at once. His chest tightens. His thoughts race.
And then he’s pulled back to that local Toronto rink. He’s sitting on the bench, feet dangling, not touching the ground. From the corner of his eye he can see his mom talking to his coach, a disappointed expression on her face. He tries to sit up straighter. Maybe she won’t be as disappointed.
It’s a deadly combination: Yuna’s expectation of nothing but perfection, her unhidden disappointment with anything less, and Shane’s natural tendency to be hard on himself.
Tears well up, threatening to spill, not from the pain of getting checked by the six-year-old nearly twice his size, but from the shame of missing the goal.
“Shane?” It reaches him like it’s underwater. His coach? No. This one sounds funny.
He’s pulled back to the present just enough to remember it’s Ilya.
And he lets himself relax. Lets himself recede into a part of his brain even before the first day on the rink, back before the drills and practices, the pursuit of excellence. Back to when Yuna didn’t require him to articulate everything. Back to when he didn’t have to explain.
The thoughts scatter. Words disappear.
He doesn’t choose to be small. His body just… goes there. To a place before drills and stats and expectations. Before he had to be excellent to be okay.
That’s when the grabby hands start.
“It’s okay,” Ilya says automatically. “One game. One shot. You didn’t—”
Shane makes a small sound. Not a word. Just a tight, broken noise in his throat.
Ilya freezes.
Shane pulls his hands into his sleeves. His fingers curl, uncurl. Curl again. Like he’s reaching for something that isn’t there.
“Okay,” Ilya murmurs, heart thudding. “Okay. I’m here. You’re okay.”
He tries all the usual things. Sits closer. Rubs circles into Shane’s back. Murmurs reassurances the way he always does when Shane spirals. It works sometimes. It’s always worked before.
But Shane’s eyes glaze, unfocused. He presses his fists into his chest like the world is too big for him.
Then he goes quiet.
Not tense-quiet. Empty-quiet.
He reaches out again, both hands this time, grabby, clumsy, desperate.
“Oh,” Ilya breathes. “Oh. Okay.”
Panic spikes sharp and bright in his chest, but he swallows it down. Shane needs steady, not frantic.
“I got you,” he says, even though he has no idea what this is yet. “I’m not going anywhere.”
He scrambles mentally. Water. Food. Blanket. Distraction.
Blanket, check.
Food… he’s not even going to start with the macrobiotic diet right now. He grabs a can of ginger ale from the fridge, cracks it open, and brings it over.
Shane takes it with both hands. Immediately tips it too far.
The cold liquid sloshes everywhere, down the front of the oversized Boston shirt Shane is wearing. Ilya’s old shirt. One of his favorites.
Ilya sucks in a breath, sharp and reflexive.
Shane freezes like a startled animal.
His eyes snap up, wide and wet, locked on Ilya’s face.
“That’s my fault,” Ilya says firmly, because someone has to say it and it might as well be him. “I should have helped. You didn’t do anything wrong.”
The words come out solid, practiced. He makes his voice certain on purpose.
Inside, his stomach twists.
Idiot, he thinks. You were right there. You saw his hands shaking. You gave him the can anyway.
He should have known. Shane doesn’t spill things. Shane is careful. Shane is precise. If he dropped something, it meant he was already past the point where careful mattered.
Ilya reaches for the hem of the shirt, peeling the wet fabric away gently. He keeps his movements slow, obvious, like he’s showing Shane every step so nothing is a surprise.
“It’s just a shirt,” he adds, softer now. “I have many. This one is nothing special.”
That’s a lie. It is one of his favorites.
Shane notices everything. Especially disappointment.
Ilya shifts closer, blocking Shane’s view of the mess entirely. If Shane can’t see it, maybe it will stop being real.
Inside, he makes himself a promise he doesn’t say out loud.
Next time I will be faster. Next time I will know what he needs before he has to show me like this.
And if this is his fault, then good. Fault means responsibility. Responsibility means he can fix it.
So Ilya stays calm, keeps his hands gentle, and takes the blame without hesitation, because Shane needs the world to be simple right now.
Ilya finishes wiping the wet liquid off Shane as best as he can and wraps him in a blanket.
And then they’re back to square one.
Ilya knows he needs to get something into Shane’s stomach. He’d really prefer it to be food, but the ginger ale will have to do for now. He can’t risk another accident. It would send Shane into a spiral, and it’s a miracle it hasn’t happened yet.
Then he sees it.
A forgotten sippy cup on the counter, bright blue, cartoon sharks on the side. Left behind the last time Hayden and Jackie visited with the kids.
Ilya stares at it. And Shane, ever perceptive even in this detached headspace, follows Ilya’s eyes and locks onto the cup.
Shane whimpers softly, fingers flexing again in the air, more determined this time. It’s clear he wants it.
This is ridiculous, Ilya thinks. This is crossing some invisible line he doesn’t understand.
Ilya exhales.
“Okay,” he murmurs. “Okay. We try.”
He pours the ginger ale into the cup, dilutes it with a little water like he’s seen Jackie do, and brings it over slowly, unsure.
Shane’s face lights up.
It’s immediate and devastating.
He reaches for it with both hands, smiling, soft and unguarded. He drinks, happy little noises escaping him, shoulders finally relaxing.
Ilya sinks down beside him, one arm hovering before settling around Shane’s back. He wants to fidget. Everything in his body is telling him to. He stays still.
“I’ve got you,” he whispers, again and again. “You’re safe. I’m here.”
Shane settles against him inch by inch, like gravity is finally allowed to work again. His head tips forward, then sideways, coming to rest against Ilya’s chest. The blanket bunches up under his chin. His breathing is still uneven, but it’s quieter now. Less sharp around the edges.
Ilya adjusts automatically, shifting so Shane’s weight is fully supported. He slides one hand up, slow and deliberate, and rests it at the back of Shane’s head.
“Okay,” he murmurs, mostly to himself. “Okay.”
He starts stroking Shane’s hair with careful, repetitive motions. Not tousling. Not playful. Just smooth passes from crown to nape, again and again, like he’s sanding something raw down to safety. Shane makes a small sound at that, barely audible, and presses closer.
Ilya exhales.
Good. That’s good.
He hums without thinking about it. Low, under his breath. A simple melody, looping and familiar, one his mother used to hum when the apartment was too quiet or too loud, when words weren’t useful. He doesn’t remember the lyrics, if there ever were any. Just the shape of it.
Shane’s fingers curl into the fabric of Ilya’s shirt.
“I’m here,” Ilya whispers softly, the words woven between the hums. “I’ve got you, solnyshko. Nothing bad now.”
Shane’s breathing begins to sync with the rhythm of Ilya’s chest. In, out. In, out. The tension drains out of his shoulders in slow increments, like it’s leaking away instead of snapping loose.
Ilya keeps his movements predictable. Hair. Back. Hair again. He doesn’t rush. He doesn’t try to fix anything else. He lets the world shrink to just this small circle of warmth and sound.
The apartment fades. The mess fades. The missed shot fades.
There’s just Shane, heavy and warm here, and the steady proof that Ilya isn’t going anywhere.
Shane shifts, restless for a moment, then stills when Ilya tightens his arm slightly around him. His head tucks closer under Ilya’s chin, seeking contact, seeking reassurance without words.
“Da, solnyshko,” Ilya murmurs, soft approval. “That’s it.”
He hums a little louder now, the tune looping back on itself. His thumb traces slow, absent circles near Shane’s temple. Every so often, Shane’s fingers flex, then relax again, like he’s testing if Ilya’s still there.
He is.
Still, once he’s sure Shane is truly asleep, Ilya shifts just enough to free one hand. Slowly. Carefully. He reaches for his phone on the coffee table, keeping his other arm firm around Shane’s back.
The screen feels too bright even on the lowest setting.
He hesitates, thumb hovering.
boyfriend stops talking after stress
nonverbal after loss
He deletes that.
Tries again.
boyfriend shutting down under pressure
not refusing to talk but couldn’t form words
sippy cup seemed to help
That leads him somewhere unexpected.
The word catches his eye because it feels wrong. Too neat. Too clinical.
Age regression.
Ilya frowns, scrolling slowly. He reads without really meaning to, absorbing fragments.
Stress-induced.
Involuntary.
Often tied to intense early childhood expectations.
Nonverbal.
Seeking comfort.
Motor skills affected.
Younger coping state.
He stops. Anyone dedicated to their sport at their level started early, and Ilya doesn’t know anyone more dedicated than Shane.
Ilya’s gaze drifts back to Shane. To the way his fingers are still curled into Ilya’s shirt like letting go would mean falling. To how his face looks younger in sleep, lines smoothed out, tension finally gone.
“So that’s what you were doing,” Ilya murmurs under his breath.
He locks the phone and sets it aside.
Whatever it’s called, whatever shape it takes, he knows one thing with certainty.
Right now, Shane doesn’t need explanations or reassurance or perspective. He needs warmth. Consistency. Someone who will hold him steady while the world feels too big.
Ilya can do that.
Just as Ilya is about to fall asleep too, he feels something wet on his chest. For one sharp second he thinks Shane woke up crying, and his breath speeds up with the thought, but when he looks down, trying not to jostle him, it’s only drool.
Shane only drools when he’s exhausted.
Ilya smiles to himself, not surprised by how unbothered he is, letting it collect in the dip of his collarbone.
Ilya doesn’t think there’s anything Shane could do that would scare him off.
He holds him anyway.
Illya doesn’t think there’s anything Shane can do that would turn him off. Afterall the man happily lets Ilya spit in his mouth.
Morning comes gently for Ilya, content on waking up with Shane’s comfortable weight still resting against him.
Sunlight through the curtains. The quiet hum of the city waking up.
It’s anything but gentle for Shane who wakes with the immediate, visceral horror of memory.
Blanket. Couch. Sippy cup on the coffee table.
Oh god.
He bolts upright, heart racing. “Ilya…”
Ilya’s already awake, watching him. Calm. Unbothered.
Shane’s face burns. He scrambles to his feet. “I… I need… I can’t…”
He turns to flee.
Ilya moves fast, intercepts him, hands gentle but firm as he grips Shane’s wrist and stops him from leaving.
“Hey,” he says. “No running.” He tugs him back down toward the couch, steady, like he’s done this a hundred times.
Shane shakes his head, then drops forward like he’s trying to fold into himself, trying to bury his face in his hands. “Don’t. Don’t make me talk about it.”
Ilya catches his other wrist with the same hand before he can. They both know Shane could break free and run if he really wanted to.
He doesn’t.
“Shane,” Ilya says quietly. With his free hand, he lifts Shane’s face, thumbs warm against his jaw. “Look at me.”
Reluctantly, Shane does.
“Solnyshko,” Ilya starts, but Shane cuts him off, panic already flaring.
“That was…” Shane chokes. “That was messed up. I won’t… I swear I won’t ever…”
His breathing spirals, words tumbling over each other. “It was stupid. I don’t know why it happened. I was just… I was just—”
“Hey,” Ilya says firmly, holding Shane’s face steady. “No. You’re not going to run away, you’re going to be brave and tell me what’s going on, da?”
Shane’s eyes are glassy. Terrified.
“It’s called an age drop,” Shane whispers finally, like a confession. “Or regression. It happens sometimes. I haven’t… I thought I was past it. I thought I fixed it.”
Ilya doesn’t let go. Internally, he gives himself a tiny pat on the back for his late-night research. At least he feels a little prepared for this.
“This isn’t something to fix, solnyshko,” he says.
Shane lets out a weak, breathless laugh. “It sure feels like it.”
Then the panic spikes again. “Fuck. Fuck. Jackie and Hayden. How am I ever going to face them again?” His gaze flicks to the offending sippy cup still sitting on the coffee table.
“Well,” Ilya says, a quiet chuckle in his voice, “now you’re really one of their kids.”
He’s always ribbed Shane about being adopted by them, with how protective Jackie and Hayden are, how Jackie makes Shane’s bird food like it’s sacred.
“Asshole,” Shane mutters, burying his face in Ilya’s chest.
Ilya leans down, mouth close to Shane’s burning red ear. “Listen to me. I love you. You’re perfect, solnyshko. You’re not broken.”
He feels Shane swallow hard, clearly trying to hold back tears.
“You trusted me,” Ilya continues. “That’s not something to be ashamed of.”
“I’m sorry,” Shane whispers.
“I know,” Ilya says softly. “But you don’t need to be.”
He holds Shane there, solid and sure.
And Shane lets himself breathe.
“Okay,” Ilya says, pulling back just enough to look at him. “Let’s get some food in you. Then we talk, okay?”
“Do we have to?” Shane asks, looking up with those puppy eyes.
Ilya almost caves. Almost.
But he knows it’s for Shane’s own good.
He gives him a small nod instead, then stands and stretches with a wince.
Two full-grown hockey players should not be sleeping on a tiny couch. He makes a mental note to look into those cloud couches Shane was raving about a couple months ago.
Mr. Architectural Digest, he thinks fondly.
Shane’s still on the couch, curled in on himself again, face in his hands now that Ilya isn’t holding them hostage. Ilya tousles a hand through Shane’s hair.
“Go shower.”
Shane frowns slightly. “What?”
“Shower,” Ilya repeats, gentle but unmistakably firm. “Warm. Take time. I’ll do breakfast.”
Shane hesitates. Ilya raises an eyebrow.
Shane concedes obediently, and shuffles toward the bathroom. He pauses at the doorway, glancing back like he’s waiting for something.
Ilya meets his eyes. “Good boy”
“Food will be ready when you’re done,” he adds.
Shane blushes, but nods giddy that this didn’t change anything between them at least in that sense.
Shane disappears into the bathroom.
Once the water starts running, Ilya moves into the kitchen on autopilot.
Muscle memory.
Brown rice out of the fridge. Into a pot with water, heat low. He stirs once, adds a pinch of salt. Slices an apple thin, steams it lightly. Miso waits on the counter. Precise. Measured.
Then his own breakfast. Eggs in a pan, vegetables tossed in, bits and bobs from the fridge, bacon without ceremony. Toast with enough butter to make Shane gag. Coffee, strong and already brewing.
When Shane comes back, hair damp, shoulders still a little tight, his bowl of miso and brown rice porridge is waiting on the counter, just as Ilya shovels his eggs onto his own plate beside a half-eaten slice of toast.
Shane stops short.
“You didn’t have to—” he starts, reflexive.
“I know,” Ilya says easily. “Sit.”
Shane does, carrying his bowl to the table.
He wraps his hands around it, grounding himself in the heat. Takes a small bite. Then another.
Ilya sits across from him with his plate and coffee.
“Okay?” he asks.
Shane nods. “Yeah.”
They eat in silence for a while. Not awkward. Shared.
After a minute, Shane says quietly, “Thanks.”
Ilya shrugs. “This is my job.”
Shane looks up. “You make breakfast every day.”
“Da,” Ilya agrees. “And you eat it.”
Shane can’t help but smile. The domesticity of it all. The ease. Like the world didn’t end last night.
Ilya catches the smile and leans across the table, presses a brief, chaste kiss to Shane’s mouth like punctuation. Then he pulls back and looks at him expectantly.
Shane’s smile falters. He drops his gaze to the table.
Ilya reaches out, hooks two fingers gently under Shane’s chin, and tips his face back up until their eyes meet.
“Talk, solnyshko,” he encourages, voice warm but steady.
Shane swallows. “What do you want me to say?”
Ilya shrugs, honest. “I don’t know. I don’t know anything. I just want to know why that happened. What I can do to help.”
The words hang there, open-ended.
Shane looks away again, but starts talking, “It wasn’t the first time,” he admits. “Just the first time it happened with… someone.”
Ilya stills, attentive.
“It used to happen more when I was younger,” Shane continues. “Big losses. Big disappointments. Especially when I felt like I’d let someone down.” He exhales through his nose. “I learned to manage it. Or I thought I did.”
Ilya nods once. He doesn’t interrupt.
“My mom,” Shane says after a moment, eyes fixed on the rim of his bowl. “She wasn’t bad. I know that, I mean you know that, you know how amazing and supportive she is. But you know how intense she is about hockey right?”
“I know,” Ilya agrees, thinking about his first conversation with Yuna where she questioned his loyalty for wanting to leave Boston for her son.
“She just… wanted excellence,” Shane continues. “All the time. I mean it was never pressure like yelling or punishment. It was just assumed I’d be great. I don’t think she even realized what she was doing, it was the way she was raised you know my grandparent immigrated to Canada from Japan and they expected her to be perfect with all the opportunity she’d been given and I guess she just passed that onto me”
He lets out a short, embarrassed breath. “I had everything. Private coaches. Ice time. Connections. It feels ridiculous to even complain about it.”
Ilya tilts his head slightly. “Why?”
Shane finally meets his eyes, “Because compared to you? My childhood was a fairy tale.”
Ilya snorts before he can stop himself. “Ah. Yes. Famous Hollander fairy tale. Very tragic. Gold skates. Loving mother. Toronto.”
Shane huffs despite himself. “I’m serious.”
“I know,” Ilya says, softer now. “But listen.”
He shifts in his chair so they’re angled toward each other, forearms resting on the table.
“You had structure. Support. Expectations.” He shrugs. “I had freedom.”
Shane raises an eyebrow. “Freedom?”
“Da,” Ilya says. “Freedom to succeed. Freedom to fail. Freedom to be a disaster. No one watched closely enough to be disappointed.”
“That’s not true, I know your father was so hard on you,” Shane argues.
“Well now he’s dead, so who cares what he thought,” he offers Shane a small, crooked smile. “Different kinds of lonely.”
Shane hesitates. “I still think you had it worse.”
Ilya laughs quietly. “Ah. So now we compete in misery?”
That gets a real smile out of Shane.
“Fine,” Ilya continues. “We are both tragic. Gold medal for suffering. We share the cup next season”
After a beat, Ilya’s expression shifts, thoughtful again.
“Can I ask you something?”
Shane stiffens slightly. “Okay.”
“What triggers it?” Ilya asks carefully. “The dropping...I mean you’ve lost before mostly when I skated circles around your slow ass and I’ve never seen this?”
“Asshole, and here I thought my boyfriend was being sweet,” Shane whines.
At that Ilya pulls Shane off his own chair and onto his lap, covering his face in slobbery kisses.
“Stop!” Shane argues unconvincingly between giggles.
“Only if you tell me what triggers it,” Ilya counters/
“Ok ok fine, it’s like losses but more like when it’s all my fault you know and I think just a combination of being overwhelmed I don’t know it’s hard to predict. But I make sure I’m alone if I feel it coming on, I’m not sure how I didn’t recognize it until I was so far gone”
Ilya’s brow furrows. “So you were always alone.”
“I was fine,” Shane says quickly, defensive.
“I didn’t say you weren’t,” Ilya replies gently. “I said you were alone. It must have been scary.”
Shane opens his mouth to argue, then stops.
He looks at Ilya’s face. There’s no teasing there. No judgment. Just sincere concern.
“Yeah,” he admits quietly. “It was.”
Ilya doesn’t say just hold him a little tighter, linking their fingers together, imagining Shane in a little headspace all alone, his poor baby.
Ilya hesitates, then asks quietly, “Can I ask one more thing?”
Shane nods, wary but present. “Okay.”
“What does it feel like?” Ilya asks. “When it happens. Inside.”
Shane takes a moment. He stares at their linked fingers like the answer might be there.
“It’s not like… pretending,” he says finally. “It’s more like my brain slides backward without asking me.”
Ilya stays still. Listening.
“I don’t lose everything,” Shane continues. “I still know who you are. I still know I’m an adult, somewhere. But it’s far away. Like it’s behind glass.”
He swallows. “My body feels smaller. Lighter. Things get louder and brighter at the same time. Words are harder. They feel… heavy. Like too many pieces.”
Ilya nods slowly. “How old?”
Shane exhales. “Almost three,” he says, embarrassed but honest. “Old enough to understand tone. Not old enough to explain myself.”
“That’s why you couldn’t talk,” Ilya murmurs, more to himself.
Shane nods. “I know what I need. I just can’t say it. I want simple things. Warm. Familiar. Someone else is deciding what happens next.”
He winces. “Which sounds awful when I say it out loud.”
“It sounds exhausting,” Ilya corrects gently.
Shane’s shoulders ease a fraction. “It’s quiet in my head,” he adds. “That’s the part that scares me. And helps. The pressure shuts off. There’s no score. No future. Just… now.”
Ilya squeezes his fingers once. “You were not gone,” he says. “You were resting.”
Shane looks up at him, searching. “You’re not weirded out?”
Ilya tilts his head. “I am… learning,” he says carefully. “But no. I am not weirded out.”
He pauses, then adds, very softly, “And you were not alone this time.”
Shane nods, throat tight, and leans a little closer.
Ilya’s thumb brushes slowly against Shane’s knuckle, grounding. “If it happens again,” he says carefully, “you don’t have to disappear by yourself. You can come find me.”
Shane’s chest tightens. “You don’t have to—”
He stops, because Ilya is already shaking his head.
“I want to,” Ilya says simply.