Work Text:
The bus back to Ottawa is mostly quiet, it's much too early for any real conversation or joking around.
Shane twists in his seat to angle himself more to the right and lifts a leg to drape it over Ilya's knee. Almost instantly, Ilya lays a hand on his thigh without ever looking up from his phone where he is playing some mindless mobile game. With a small smile, the split from upper to lower lip stings as it is pulled, Shane leans back to lay his head against the high back of his seat after pulling up the hood of Ilya’s sweatshirt he's wearing. He is warm and comfortable, even if his hand still aches and there is now a dull throbbing bruise along his cheekbone that fully blossomed overnight. That had been a shock in the hotel bathroom mirror.
The bus hasn't been rolling for more than fifteen minutes when heated, excited whispers pick up from the back.
“Holy shit,” LaPointe's incredulous voice carries through the cabin, “Twitter says that Comeau has been fined and suspended.”
Both Ilya and Shane perk up, twisting to peer over their seats. LaPointe is leaning over the seat in front of him, showing his phone to Holmberg and Young in the row in front of him. Dykstra, across the aisle from LaPointe, nods enthusiastically as he stares at his own screen. “It's already on Scouting the Refs. A five game suspension and maximum fine for high-sticking, cross-checking, and ‘unsportsmanlike conduct’,” he reads aloud.
Barrett lets out an unamused snort, “That's putting it lightly.”
“There's video all over Twitter from your fight, Hollzy,” Young shouts, sounding way too excited about it.
There are scattered shouts of ‘Haymaker Hollander’ from all around.
Shane silently wonders when he'll hear word if he will also be facing a suspension. He has no doubt he will get the maximum fine as well. Knocking the block off Comeau was definitely worth the five grand, though.
Beside him, Ilya pulls up Twitter and Shane leans closer to see. His stomach sinks as Ilya opens a video that a fan right at the glass took. He doesn't recognize the Shane that is on screen. He looks rabid, feral, with a snarling mouth and dead eyes. He is moving like a man possessed. He can see the moment something in Comeau's face cracks under his fist. Shane reaches out to turn Ilya's phone away so he can't see the screen.
He feels sick to his stomach.
Ilya's hand squeezes at Shane's thigh comfortingly.
“Oh, what the fuck?” Hayes shouts from two rows behind Shane and Ilya.
Heads peek up over seats from all over the bus. If he were in a better mood, Shane would smile at how they all resemble a mob of meerkats. Unfortunately, there is a deep simmering dread in the depths of his very being.
“What now?” Shane asks tiredly, laying his head against his seat again.
There are a lot of agitated huffs and gasps of disbelief from all over the bus. Sparks of anxiety fire off within Shane's nervous system at the sounds. No one says anything for a long stretch of silence which only serves to exacerbate the unease that Shane feels.
“You didn't hit him nearly hard enough,” Zane says gruffly from the row behind Ilya and Shane.
Ilya shifts, getting up from his seat and causing Shane's leg to drop back to the floor. He presses his knee into the seat, leaning against the back to lean over and look at Bood. “What is happening?” Ilya asks in a low voice. He sounds dangerous, like he is preparing for war. It sends a shiver down Shane's spine. He's not sure if that's good or bad.
“There is footage of what Comeau said to Shane. People online have translated it and it… Jesus, Hollzy you shoulda killed him,” Bood sighs, shaking his head.
Ilya's head snaps to the side to stare down at Shane with an intensity that left him feeling breathless. He squirms under Ilya's gaze, pointedly averting his eyes to avoid eye contact. He had purposefully not told Ilya what Comeau had said to garner such a reaction from him. He'd hoped Ilya would chalk it up to heightened emotions around the situation as a whole.
“Shanya… Chto on tebe skazal?” The half-growled Russian causes heat to flood Shane's face.
Shane can feel everyone on the bus looking their way, even though he is still ducked low in his swat. He has to swallow back a rush of saliva as his stomach churns. “It doesn't matter,” he finally mumbles, looking down to his lap. The sleeves of Ilya’s hoodie hang over Shane's hands, and he absently pulls on the fabric as he attempts to regulate his suddenly shallow breathing.
Without a word, Ilya snaps his fingers and when Shane looks up he is holding Bood's phone in his hand. For a fleeting moment, Shane considers throwing the phone the full length of the bus just to get it away from his husband.
He watches the way Ilya's eyes drag across the screen, reading whatever is in front of him. Ilya's jaw muscle twitches, his eyes narrow, and his nostrils flare. His whole face shifts from the beautiful man that he loves into some chiseled marble statue depicting the depth of man's rage.
Shane reaches into his pocket to pull out his own phone, pulling up his seldom used Twitter app, and begins scrolling. He clicks on the first tweet that he finds about the fight from the night before.
@parlezvoushockey If Gilbert Comeau had called ME a ‘bastard’ and a ‘cocksucker' and said that I sold my THREE TIME STANLEY CUP CHAMPIONS team out to get ‘fucked in the ass’ by a ‘Russian monster’ I would have done worse than Shane Hollander
@centsandsensibility he said WHAT?!?!?!
@crazyforhazy Hey @comeau_mtl drop a pin I just wanna talk
@rozanderrr hell hath no fury like a wronged queer
@formervoyagerstan okay but shane yelling that if comeau thought more about having sex with his wife than thinking about hollanov fucking he wouldn't be getting divorced???? 💀 savage
@powerplay4keeps HAVE I EVER TOLD YOU YOURE MY HERO @Hollander24
@centaurPRIDE if he says stuff like that in PUBLIC on LIVE TELEVISION can you imagine what foul shit he says in private
@ourboytroy That Voyager locker room has to be a fucking cesspool thank god Hollzy got outta there
@letspuckitout Roz is going to murder someone
@bigmoodbood he's trying to get citizenship plz don't get arrested and deported king 🤞
A sharp exhale of breath grabs Shane's attention, making him look away from his phone, back to Ilya. His husband silently hands Bood his phone, without taking his eyes off of Shane whose whole face suddenly burns with the heat of the sun. Ilya braces a hand on the top of his own seat as well as the one in front of him, his body turned to face Shane effectively caging him in place between Ilya and the window at his back.
“Pochemu ty mne ne skazal?” Ilya demands, voice low.
Shane is sure everyone is staring. He wishes he could disappear. He absolutely does not want to have this conversation in front of the entire team. “I am not doing this right now,” Shane murmurs, looking up at Ilya with wide, pleading eyes.
Ilya’s jaw flexes menacingly, “Ya razberus' s etim pryamo seychas. Ty do sikh por ne skazal mne, chto skazal etot ublyudok. On oskorbil tebya! Ty — moy muzh, i on tebya oskorbil! I vso zhe ty pozvolil mne trakhnut' tebya, slovno nichego i ne proizoshlo. No eto sovershenno nepravil'no!”
The longer that Ilya spoke, the louder and faster his words came out. Shane's Russian wasn't anywhere near good enough to understand what he was saying, only picking up a word here and there. A few rows further up, Coach Wiebe gets to his feet. He stands in the aisle and Shane can see his eyes flicking from Ilya to himself, as if silently asking if he needs to intervene. White hot shame scorches across Shane's face as the first sting of tears prick at the edges of his eyes.
“Sadis', Ilyusha. Sadis' i molchi,” Shane says, jaw clenching and words tight.
Ilya blinks one, two… three times, as if he has suddenly been brought back into his own body and brain. He glances around the bus and then back to Shane where his eyes immediately soften. Slowly, he slides back down into his seat but keeps himself twisted to face Shane. Swallowing thickly, Shane can see the dramatic bob of his Adam's apple, Ilya tentatively reaches a hand out. When Shane doesn't pull away, Ilya gingerly cups Shane's cheek in his palm, using his thumb to brush against the bruise discoloring the freckles along his cheek.
“I am sorry,” he whispers, voice barely loud enough for Shane to hear.
The air in the bus is thick, pulled tight like a metal cable holding the weight of a skyscraper. No one is speaking, Shane isn't even positive if anyone is breathing at this point. He nods once, curt and awkward with Ilya's hand still holding his face.
“We will talk at home,” Ilya says softly. He leans close enough to brush his lips to the uninjured corner of Shane's mouth.
At the back of the bus there is a furious whisper followed by a brusque laugh, and the tension seems to melt immediately. Shane scoots closer to Ilya and they both move effortlessly as one so that Shane can tuck his head into the hollow of Ilya’s collar, nose brushing against the side of his neck. It is familiar and comfortable.
Shane drifts off easily.
*****
“I can carry my own bag,” Shane protests as Ilya hauls both of their suitcases from the bus toward the car.
Ilya makes a show of ignoring him as he walks away.
Everyone is more than ready to head home to sleep in their own beds before a day of reviewing footage and practice tomorrow. That was the plan, but judging by Coach Wiebe's face as he talks on the phone a few meters away, Shane isn't so sure. Before Ilya can come back, Coach ends his call and makes his way over.
“Hollander. Let's head inside and talk,” he says in a tone that lets Shane know it won't be a fun conversation.
Everyone who is still unloading at least has the decency to look busy and as if they aren't eavesdropping.
Nodding jerkily, Shane follows Wiebe toward the arena. It feels reminiscent of the time he had gotten into a fight during a game when he was twelve, the last one he had before starting Juniors, and had to follow the coach and his parents with his head hung in shame to the locker room. He hadn't knocked that kid's tooth out but definitely gave him a pair of matching black eyes for thinking it was okay to say anything about Yuna Hollander. Shaking his head, to bring himself back to the present, Shane glances over his shoulder, doesn't see Ilya back at the bus so he must still be putting their things in the car. With a soft sigh, Shane pulls his phone out of his pocket.
SHANE: Coach wanted to talk to me in his office.
SHANE: I feel like I'm going to the principal's office… or the guillotine.
SHANE: I'll let you know which after.
Inside Wiebe's office, Shane is silently directed to take a seat in front of the desk as Coach sits behind it with a heavy sigh. Shane instantly knows that this isn't going to be good. He sits slowly, his hands anxiously twisting in his lap. The both of them are quiet for just enough time that Shane can practically feel his blood pressure rising.
Finally, Wiebe sighs, “That was Crowell, on the phone out there.”
Shane winces at the name alone.
Wiebe nods solemnly.
“The league is prepared to offer you two options after last night. And I want you to know that I fully support your decision either way.”
Blinking slowly, Shane rubs a hand over the back of his neck, “What are they?”
“Well, no matter what you're going to face the maximum fine for fighting that's non-negotiable,” Wiebe begins with a plain shrug of his shoulders. Shane nods, he expected as much and was prepared for that. Wiebe lets out a slow breath of air. “You can either be suspended for four games, or one game if you post a public and personal apology for your egregious and violent response to what Comeau said.”
Shane freezes. He's sure his blood turns to ice and his heart stops beating.
Wiebe looks even more upset than Shane feels.
“Let me get this right. Comeau essentially sexually harassed me at my job on live television before busting open my face and I have to say sorry?” Shane asks, incredulous. Wiebe winces. Shane shakes his head. “You also see that this is complete bullshit, yeah?”
“Oh, it absolutely is. But, you don't have to do it.”
Shane groans, pushing his hands through his hair, “I do if I want to play.”
Coach sits up straight in his chair, shaking his head slowly from side to side. “Look, Hollander, I saw what he said to you. No one should have to listen to that kind of disgusting shit. And, unofficially, if I were aware of what he'd said at the time I would have told Bood and Barrett to wait before pulling you off. But, this is the situation we're in thanks to our good friend Crowell. Your team supports you in whatever you want to do. If you wanna bite the bullet and shorten your suspension, that's up to you. But we will survive four games without you.”
Shane leans forward, elbows pressing at his knees and his head falling between his shoulders. He takes in a slow breath of air, trying to calm the sudden influx of nerves inside his chest. He wants to scream. This wasn't fair.
After several beats of prolonged silence, Shane sits up straight once again.
“I guess I'll see you in four games.”
Wiebe nods, obviously trying to keep the pleased grin off of his face, “I'll call Crowell back.”
Shane can only nod once before getting to his feet. He turns to exit the office, out into the dressing room. He startles as he closes the door behind him at seeing the locker room full of his teammates. His brows knit together in confusion.
“What're you all doing here? You should be home,” he says slowly, looking over everyone's faces.
Barrett shrugs, “We wanted to make sure you were okay.”
Shane's heart clenches painfully behind his ribs. He couldn't imagine this ever happening back in Montreal. How could he have ever thought that those guys were his real friends when after just a few months this team shows up for him like this? Clearing his throat, Shane nods once and crosses his arms over his chest.
“I have to pay a fine–”
Ilya interrupts him, “I will pay.”
Amused snickers float through the dressing room as guys shake their heads. Shane rolls his eyes fondly.
“I was given the choice of a four game suspension or a one game suspension if I issue an apology for my violent actions,” Shane explains bitterly. A disgruntled uproar fills the room. Guys curse in disbelief, or throw their arms up in exasperation.
Troy stares at a wall with a scowl on his face.
The planes of Ilya’s face are shrouded in wrathful shadows that obscure the warm and loving man beneath. Shane almost doesn't recognize him. He doesn't look like his husband, he hardly even resembles the man he played against for years on the ice. He is almost a stranger, a very angry stranger.
“They want you to do what?” Ilya seethed.
Shane quickly crosses the room to reach his husband's side. He winds an arm around Ilya’s waist, tucking himself beneath the bend in his arm. The proximity seems to ease the taut strain in Ilya’s muscles.
“I told Wiebe I'd take the four games,” he says, addressing the room again. He's met with several shocked expressions and a very loud silence. “I'm not sorry I hit him and I'm not going to pretend I am to protect the Voyagers of all people, let alone a fucking bigot. So, you guys will just have to deal without me for a while.”
“Good for you, Hollzy,” Wyatt says, getting to his feet.
A murmur of agreement spreads among the team. Shane's heart squeezes at the sound. He takes a deep breath and nods his head once. “I'll be back for our game in Toronto. Haas will just have to hold the fort down in center in Florida and New York,” Shane says, shooting a lopsided grin at the boy.
Luca's eyes widen slightly but LaPointe, Holmberg, and Young excitedly pat him on the back, shaking his shoulders back and forth. They ruffle his hair and loudly begin to chant ‘Haasy’ over and over again. Shane cannot help but smile at the antics of the younger players. He's happy that they have the place to be silly and cared for on a team as they're coming up.
Ilya presses a small kiss to Shane’s temple, “Ready to go home?”
Shane nods.
*****
In the car, Shane finds himself once again scrolling through Twitter as Ilya drives. There is much of the same from what he can see. People disgusted with what Comeau said and did, people laughing at Shane's own personal chirp back. He finds others, after scrolling deeper and deeper that sit heavy and hot like molten lead in his stomach as he reads them.
@mtldynasty Hollander should be arrested for what he did to Comeau - that was ruthless and uncalled for.
@mittymachine always thought there was something wrong with hollander he's clearly some kind of psycho
@puckaroundandfindout he threw the voyagers under the bus for commie dick he's DEFINITELY a psycho
@ringmybellcentre Rozanov ruined Hollander – made the golden boy no better than a thug!
Shane shakes his head and scrolls further. There are so many videos of the fight, from innumerable angles. Every single one of them twists his guts in a painful vice grip. Then there are the screengrabs of his bloody, screaming face calling him a monster, a feral beast unfit to play professional hockey. He's so far down the rabbit hole that he doesn't notice they've arrived home until Ilya gently wraps his long fingers around Shane's wrist.
“Come inside, Shanya,” Ilya breathes, voice barely above a low rumble.
Tucking his phone away, Shane can only nod before sliding out of the car. Ilya grabs the bags and leads the pair of them inside. Shane shuffles off to the sofa while Ilya drops their bags in the laundry room – a problem for later. When he returns, Shane is stretched across the cushions, arms folded over his stomach, with his head resting on the arm rest. He blinks slowly and turns his head to the side to look back at Ilya.
Ilya sits cross-legged on the floor by Shane's head.
“I am sorry I raised my voice on the bus. I did not mean to upset or embarrass you,” he says in a heavy voice. He scrubs at his face with both of his hands, Shane can hear the stubble scraping against his palms. “I just… Why didn't you tell me what he said to you? I asked and you didn't tell me. You asked me to fuck you so I'd stop talking.”
Shane snorts softly, “You usually don't complain about fucking me.”
“Shane,” Ilya replies, tone serious.
Sighing loudly, Shane closes his eyes and turns his head away. “I don't care what he said about me, not really. I expected it in some way. It didn't feel great, sure, but… he called you a monster. And I don't know. Something in me snapped. Who is he to talk about you or our relationship? What gives him the goddamn right to talk to me like that?” Shane huffs loudly, arms flailing as he speaks.
He looks back at Ilya and gives him a sad sort of smile, “I asked you to fuck me instead of talking about it because… you make me feel good. Not just when we have sex. But you are the best thing in my life and I wanted to be reminded. You were so gentle and loving with me last night, not the monster they made you out to be.”
Ilya's face rapidly shifts through too many emotions for Shane's brain to even attempt to name, not that he's all that great at reading emotions anyway, before he leans closer to press a feather-light kiss to Shane's lips.
“You knocked a man's tooth out to protect my honor?” Ilya teases gently. “My shiny knight.”
“Knight in shining armor,” Shane corrects with a faux annoyed eye roll.
Ilya kisses him again, grinning broadly, “Same, same.”
“Same, same,” Shane agrees, kissing him back.
Pushing some hair off of Shane’s forehead, Ilya watches him closely for a moment or two. “You know that you are not monster also, da? I saw some of those posts. They were made by sad, angry little assholes who are sad and angry because they lost the great Shane Hollander,” he says, fingers scratching gently at Shane's scalp.
Shane nods slowly, not trusting his voice to actually say anything.
“Now, would you like to go to bed where I can show you my monster di–”
“–ILYA!”