Archive of Our Own

"Hell yeah!" J.J. beams, throwing an arm around him. "We are getting you hammered."

Shane rolls his eyes. 

"Not a chance."

-

They do. 

Shane Hollander-Rozanov is a lot less tight-laced than Shane Hollander, captain of the Metros, and can be much more easily ployed with promises of shots that taste like candy. He’s relaxed a little about calorie-counting lately, and he’s learned that he does like alcohol when it comes in the form of something sugary and ridiculous. 

He’s also learned that he has a tendency to run away, once he’s drunk enough— the Centaurs know not to bother following him, that Ilya has his location and will pick him up when he finally stops. 

Hayden and J.J. don’t know this, and are now sprinting down the sidewalk after him, which is hilarious. 

(He feels so free. The wind is in his hair, cooling him off after getting too hot in the club, and there’s simply no better feeling than a drunk run.)

"I know how it sounds," Wyatt says. "I do. I hear it. But I’m telling you, I put him to bed last night, he was— he was just high, okay? Like, really high, but normal. And then I wake up and there is a child in my guest room—"

Shane stares at him. 

"A child."

"Yes."

"In your house."

"Yes."

"That you’re saying is my husband."

Wyatt gestures helplessly towards the living room, from which the Bluey theme song is playing.

"Go look, dude. Maybe it’s not real, and full-sized grownup Rozy is just sitting there watching cartoons, and you can confirm that I’ve finally cracked. Fuck, man. I feel like I’m losing it."

He finally moves out of the way, and Shane only steps far enough into the living room to see a little mop of blonde curls, atop the head of a boy who looks no more than five years old. The kid— allegedly a shrunken-down Ilya— is too caught up in the TV to look over and notice him just yet.

His face must betray his surprise.

"See?" Wyatt hisses, quietly. "You see it too. That’s a fucking kid. But it’s— I know it’s definitely Roz. He knew who I was this morning, he wasn’t freaking out and asking for his parents or anything… he just told me to call Shane, please, in his tiny little Russian accent. Which is, like— he definitely didn’t speak any English yet when he was this little, right? So that’s telling me it’s probably not time travel. I think he just… shrunk."

"He shrunk," Shane echoes, still having a very fucking hard time believing this. 

"He knew how to use Disney Plus! If this was actual baby Roz, teleported here from the nineties, he’d be lost, but he just went ahead and put on this weird ass dog show all by himself, like he’d seen it before."

"We babysit the Pike kids, he’s definitely seen it before." Shane shakes his head. That’s not the important part of this. "Sorry— this is insane. You both know I hate being pranked. This isn’t funny."

Wyatt seems about to argue, but then simply grabs Shane by the arm and drags him further into the living room. 

"Hey, Roz," he says. "Look who’s here!"

The little boy looks up, and there’s a split second where Shane’s brain simply says yeah, that’s him. 

(It’s impossible, but— the bright eyes, the toothy grin, the way he lights up immediately. There’s something so Ilya about him.)

"Shane!"

He scrambles to his bare feet, almost getting tangled in the t-shirt that’s hanging off of him like a dress, and sprints towards him. 

Shane’s instincts thankfully take over, and he crouches down just in time to catch him in his arms. The little body is solid and real and warm— a firm impact against his chest, face pressing into his shoulder, arms around his neck— and even smells like Ilya. Fuck.

"I missed you," Ilya says, in the cutest little accent Shane has ever heard, muffled against Shane’s shirt. "I tell Hazy to please call you because I want to go home to see you and Anya, and you came!"

Shane huffs out an incredulous sort of breath, but simply hugs Ilya back, because however fucking insane this is, it’s apparently just what’s happening now. He’s not going to fuck it up.

"Of course I came." He finds himself cupping the back of Ilya’s little head, stroking his hair gently. "Hi, buddy."

Ilya pulls back just far enough to grin at him— there’s this pure, unwavering trust in his eyes, and he doesn’t seem scared at all. He’s just happy that Shane came to get him. He doesn’t seem panicked about, or possibly even aware of, the fact that he’s suddenly a good twenty-five years younger than he was last night… he’s just happy. 

"Hazy gived me toast with Nutella for breakfast."

The evidence of it is smeared at the corner of his mouth, which Shane wipes away with his thumb without even thinking, the same way he would do it for any of Hayden’s kids. 

"Sounds yummy," he replies, because literally all he can do at this point is roll with whatever the hell is happening. "Are you… feeling okay?"

Ilya considers that, glancing briefly at Wyatt and back to Shane, like he’s confused as to why it’s even being asked, then shrugs. 

"Yes." He’s still holding onto Shane, and now snuggles his way back into his chest. "I feel happy."

"Good," Shane breathes, holding him closer, still crouched on the ground. "That’s good."

He looks back at Wyatt, who’s simply staring at them with wide eyes, clearly just as lost as Shane is. 

"Roz," Wyatt tries. "You look, um… a little smaller than you did yesterday. Do you feel different at all?"

"Mm, no," Ilya mumbles. "Am not small."

"Right," Shane says. "Of course not."

He stands up, scooping Ilya off his feet and settling him against his hip. Ilya clings happily to him. 

"We go home now?" Ilya asks. "I want to see Anya."

"Soon." He carries Ilya into the kitchen. "Hayes, do you still have the packaging from the edibles he had last night? Not that it probably explains anything, but… I’m kind of at a loss here."

"Yeah, hang on." Wyatt seems relieved to have a task, fishing in his recycling bin. "Dude, thank god Lisa’s at work. This would break her brain. Rozy ate magic Russian gummies and turned into a baby… she gets all squirrelly when the WAGs start talking about star signs and manifesting, because it’s not scientific. This is, like, ten times more witchy."

"You don’t think she’d be able to help?" Shane asks. Ilya is playing with his hair, perfectly content in his arms. "Maybe she’s seen this before."

Wyatt gives him a look. 

"Okay, fine," Shane continues. "She probably hasn’t."

"Here’s the package," Wyatt says, pulling it out. "It’s all in Russian, so I’ve got no clue. He said he got it from the old lady at his Russian grocery store."

Shane knows of this store, but Ilya is always cagey about it and prefers to go alone— he likes being able to chat with the staff in Russian, browse for foods you can’t normally get here, and always comes home with ingredients for the types of meals his mother used to make. Shane has always tried to respect it as Ilya’s time, a ritual of sorts, to let him connect with a culture that his day-to-day is far removed from. 

He wishes he’d at least asked for the name of the place.  

"Ilya," Shane says, taking the package from Wyatt. "I need your help, bud. Can you tell me what this says? I’m not very good at reading Russian."

Ilya looks down at it for a moment, shifting in Shane’s arms to turn and see it better, but then shakes his head. 

"No." He sounds apologetic. "I don’t know how."

It lands like a glass has been dropped. 

"You— what?" Wyatt says. "Dude. You know how to read, right?"

Ilya shifts, clearly nervous. Shane hugs him a little tighter. He’s so tiny. 

"Is… big words," Ilya mumbles. "I don’t know. I know letters."

Of course. He’s a preschooler right now. This is incredibly confusing— he’s clearly got his adult memories, to an extent, but it all seems to be filtered through the mind of a little kid. 

"That’s okay, honey," Shane says, brushing Ilya’s messy curls out of his eyes. "We’ll figure it out a different way."

Ilya relaxes a little, probably relieved at the expectation being removed. He pokes at the package. 

"Candy."

"You remember?" Wyatt says. "Do you—"

"Is there more?" Ilya cuts him off.

"No. I don’t think you need more," Shane almost laughs. "Do you remember eating it last night?"

Ilya nods. 

"Mm-hm. Was good. I like candy."

Wyatt sighs, probably having the same thought as Shane— we’re getting nowhere. 

"Ilyushka," Shane starts, choosing a different approach. "How old are you right now? Do you know?"

Ilya stares at his own hand for a moment, then holds up four little fingers. 

"This."

"You’re four," Shane states, as if that makes sense. "Okay. Awesome." He spots a team photo on Wyatt’s fridge, and carries Ilya closer to it. He points to thirty-one year-old Ilya’s face. "Who’s this?"

Ilya blinks. Frowns. Thinks about it for a moment. 

"Me." He pauses, then adds: "Is big me. Am little now. Malen’kiy."

He’s supremely unbothered by the whole situation. It’s almost funny, when you put it like that. 

He’s just little now. 

"Okay… when big-you ate the candy last night… did you know it would make you little?"

Ilya blinks at him, lost. Shane had a feeling that question might not land. 

"He said it was just a stronger edible," Wyatt says. "Apparently it was supposed to be super natural, and relaxing and rejuvenating, not the weak Canadian shit, and—"

"You say a bad word, Hazy," Ilya interrupts, pointing a tiny finger at him. 

"Right." Wyatt winces. "Sorry, kid."

Rejuvenating. Shane turns the word over in his mind a few times, while readjusting Ilya’s little body in his arms. 

Jesus fucking Christ. 

"Okay," he says, under his breath. "Okay."

This has to be temporary, right? It’s just a crazy magical drug that, like, brings out your inner child, or something. It has to wear off. There’s no way Ilya is stuck like this. 

He’ll send Svetlana a picture of the package, ask her to translate it, and they’ll figure it out. In the meantime, he’s going to have to take care of his four year-old husband. 

This is fine. 

"Let’s get you home, Ilyushka," he continues. "You wanna go see Anya?"

"Yes!" Ilya beams, squirming like he wants Shane to put him down. "Yes, please."

Shane keeps his hold on him. 

"Alright, alright. We don’t have any shoes for you, I’ll carry you to the car. Relax." 

They’ll have to find him some clothes, too— there might be some random pieces of Pike child residue at their house, things left behind on visits, although even Amber is six now, so it’s unlikely that there’s anything quite small enough still lying around. 

"I might have some," Wyatt seems to realize out loud. "My sister dropped off some of my nephew’s old stuff. She asked me to take it next time I go volunteer at that outreach thing downtown— they take hand-me-downs for the kids at the shelter next door."

Wyatt helps run a ball hockey program for low-income kids at a community centre, because he’s simply that kind of awesome person. Of course he’d just happen to have a pile of children’s clothing at the ready, waiting to be donated. 

"I’ll find you some clothes and shoes, little Rozy," he continues. "Hang tight for a minute. Andrew is almost seven, so his things might still be a little big, but it’ll be better than the shirt you went to bed in."

Ilya looks down at himself and seems to realize for the first time that he’s in nothing but a too-large t-shirt, meant for his adult self. 

"Okay," he says, quietly. "Thank you."

Shane can’t hold back the urge to kiss the side of Ilya’s head. 

This is so fucking bizarre, but he is so fucking cute. 

-

Within twenty minutes, Ilya is dressed in some clothes that fit surprisingly well— Andrew is small for his age, so the stuff he’s recently outgrown actually works out nicely— and buckled into the back seat of Shane’s jeep, sitting on Amber’s booster seat that has been riding around in the trunk since the last time they picked her up for something.  

(Ilya should probably be in a proper, harnessed carseat, being as small as he is, but they’re making do. They might still have one in the garage at home, from when the Pikes were littler. Hopefully they won’t need it, and can just ride this out without going anywhere until he switches back.)

Wyatt has sent them on their way with the whole bag of clothes, seeing as they have no idea how long this might last, and instructions to call him if they need anything at all. 

"I want to see Anya," Ilya says, kicking his feet against the back of the passenger seat. "We go home?"

"We’re going home," Shane says, peeking back at him in the rear view mirror. "Are you comfy back there?"

Ilya is still smiling, perfectly carefree. 

"Yes."

"Good."

Shane takes a moment just to sit there, staring straight ahead with his hands on the wheel, contemplating that maybe he’s still drunk and this is a crazy dream— but he ultimately shakes his head. This is really happening. 

He drives them home, and hopes that maybe a nap this afternoon will reset everything. 

-

"Anya!" Ilya drops to his knees in the entryway once he’s kicked his shoes off, wrapping her up in a hug. "Hi, hi, hi!"

If Anya senses anything wrong with this situation, she doesn’t show it. She licks a wide stripe up Ilya’s cheek. He shrieks, delighted. 

"She kiss me!" Ilya yells. "Shane!"

"I think she missed her favourite person," Shane chuckles, ruffling his hair, trying to be as normal as humanly possible. "She’s happy to see you."

The full-chested laughter that Ilya bursts into— those little-kid giggles that are practically contagious— is almost enough to bring tears to Shane’s eyes. 

He’s so happy.  

"Anya, you are luchshaya sobaka v mire." Ilya flops onto his back, letting her pounce on him, still laughing. "I love you."

Shane stands there and watches for a moment, his brain still not entirely on board with accepting what’s in front of him. 

That’s Ilya. His husband. It’s the most insane thing he’s ever seen. 

Everything else about the house is exactly as he left it, and the normalcy is almost off-putting— there’s a to-do list in Ilya’s handwriting on the counter, which the very same man who wrote it won’t even be able to read today. 

Clean fridge
Grocery
Meal prep
Laundry/sheets
Car

Shane doesn’t even know what the last one is supposed to be. Car could mean anything— Ilya has several, though certainly not as many as he had back in Boston, and if one of them needs work, Shane wouldn’t know where to start. 

The rest is manageable, though, and is pretty much on the same page as what Shane was hoping to accomplish with their day off. Meal prep is the big one, which requires the fridge being cleaned out and groceries being purchased first, so he’s pretty much got his work cut out for him. 

And he’ll do it all while keeping an eye on a four year-old. 

Perfect. 

-

Shane gets to work tidying the fridge— pulling things out, checking expiration dates, cringing at the amount of food that goes bad when you travel as much as they do— because he’s not exactly sure what else to do. 

Ilya has been thoroughly entertained with Anya so far, chasing her around the house in laps, his little feet pattering on the hardwood alongside the click of her nails. He still doesn’t seem to notice anything strange about the situation, which Shane has decided is a silver lining; it’d be worse if he was confused or scared about it. He seems to just be having fun, so far. 

Shane has already texted Svetlana a picture of the edibles’ packaging, asking for a translation— he opted just to tell her that Ilya had a weird reaction to the gummies, and that he’s still sleeping it off. She hasn’t answered yet, but will probably have some questions when she does. 

He’s in the middle of tentatively sniffing a mysterious container of Ilya’s leftovers when he feels a little tug on the back of his shirt. 

"Shane?" says the sweetest little voice he’s ever heard. 

He sets the dish down and turns around. Ilya is watching him with wide eyes. 

"Hey, buddy," Shane chuckles. "What’s up?"

Ilya is visibly out of breath from sprinting around the house with Anya, and he’s managed to lose a sock somehow. He looks a bit worn-out— he’s had an eventful morning already, and it’s only ten-thirty. 

He hesitates for just a second, like he’s deciding something.

Then, he lifts both arms towards Shane. 

"Up?"

Shane doesn’t even think about it. He squats down, hands finding Ilya’s sides easily, and scoops him off the ground.

"C’mere," he murmurs, getting him settled against his hip. "You had fun with Anya? You look tired."

Ilya nods.

"Mm-hm. She was so fast." He settles against Shane immediately, like this is exactly where he’s meant to be. His arms loop around Shane’s neck, legs around his waist, and he exhales softly against his shoulder. "She is the best dog ever."

Shane huffs a quiet laugh.

"Yeah? You guys were playing hard together." He bounces Ilya lightly in his arms, still unable to get over just how small he is. "It sounded like a good time. More fun than cleaning the fridge."

Ilya glances around— seems to notice the containers on the counter, the garbage can pulled closer for dumping things out, the Lysol wipes for cleaning the shelves. He blinks as he realizes he’s interrupted something.

"I can go down," he says, very quietly.

Shane frowns.

"What?"

Ilya pulls back just enough for Shane to see his worried expression.

"I— you put me down now. I’m sorry. I don’t need—"

"Ilyusha," Shane says, not making any move to put him down just yet. "You asked to come up. It’s okay. I’ve got you." He pauses, trying to read his expression. "Did you change your mind?"

Ilya hesitates again. He twists his fingers in Shane’s shirt. He doesn’t let go or try to wiggle his way back to the floor, just looks nervously around. 

He ultimately shrugs— a barely-there lift of his shoulders. 

"You are busy."

Shane melts a little. 

"Not too busy for you." He shifts his weight, adjusting Ilya in his arms. "Okay? If you want me to hold you, I will. We can finish cleaning together."

Ilya studies his face for a moment, like he’s trying to figure out if that’s a trick. 

He finally relaxes again, but not completely. 

"Okay."

Shane presses a kiss to his hair. 

"Okay."

And he goes back to the fridge, continuing the task one-handed— emptying a shelf, wiping it down, checking containers, putting things away. It’s much slower-moving now, but he couldn’t possibly complain about the weight of Ilya’s little body pressed warmly against him. 

"I can help," Ilya says, after a bit. 

"You’re supervising," Shane says, leaning awkwardly to reach a container at the very back without tipping Ilya sideways. "That’s helping."

Ilya look frustrated. 

"No. I help you." He squirms in Shane’s grasp. "I can do it."

Shane looks at him for a moment, trying to figure out what’s behind the sudden fussiness, but decides not to press. 

He hands Ilya the container he’d just grabbed. 

"Hold this for me?"

Ilya takes it, with a serious little expression. 

"Okay."

It’s enough to settle him, apparently, so they continue on like that— Shane handing him things to make him feel included, and Ilya hanging onto them like it’s the most important task he’s ever been given. 

At one point, Shane shifts his weight again; the arm supporting Ilya is starting to tire out a little, so he leans against the counter to readjust him. 

Ilya tightens his grip and tucks his head into Shane’s neck. 

"I stay with you?" he whispers, almost under his breath. 

Shane stills. 

He rubs Ilya’s back with his free hand. 

"Of course. I’ve got you."

Ilya relaxes again. 

They keep going for a few more minutes. Shane finishes the shelf they’re working on, then decides to leave the last couple for later— they’re mostly full of things that he knows are still fresh, so it’ll just be pulling them out to clean the shelf, which he can do whenever.

"All done," he tells Ilya, who’s been more interested in snuggling into Shane than helping for the last little bit. "Should we find something more fun to do?"

Ilya shrugs.

"Okay."

Shane carries him to the living room, and settles them both down on the couch, tucking Ilya into his side. Anya is quick to hop up and join them.

"You were watching Bluey, back at Wyatt’s house— should we put that on until lunchtime?"

Ilya strokes Anya’s ear and nods.

"Yes. I like this show."

Shane kisses his head again, because he just can’t help it. Ilya hums happily. 

This might be the weirdest day of his life, but it’s kind of nice so far.