Work Text:
Shane had never thought he'd be part of those couples that kept track of multiple anniversaries. The act itself felt inane and overdone. You'd also have to be able to get into a relationship in the first place to have an anniversary to celebrate.
Almost 15 years later, here he was, checking the calendar and smiling at the little red heart that indicated the first time he and Ilya had ever crossed paths. He never thought that day in Saskatchewan, when he had gotten up the nerve to go introduce himself to the kid he had heard so much about, would change the rest of his life.
Truthfully, Shane had only done it as a challenge to himself. There was a part of him that had always been painfully aware of how people seemed to struggle with him —the quick glances, polite nods, the conversations that fizzled out before they could even truly begin. He remembered, with the sharp sting of old embarrassment, those birthday parties as a kid where he’d known he was only invited because a mother had insisted that all students in the class should come, where he’d stand in a corner, rehearsing lines in his head and wishing he found the right way to fit in. Each new place seemed to confirm it: there was something about him that kept others at arm's length, no matter how much he wanted otherwise. Making friends felt like trying to skate on ice that was always just about to crack.
With his heart set on having a long career in the MHL, though, he knew he would have to work on his people skills. He knew, just like any other skill he learned on the ice, he would have to practice. So, he told himself that he would have to make a new introduction at every event. It never hurt to network, and if the others found him odd, well, it wasn’t like they lived close enough to each other that he would have to live with constant embarrassment. If he was being honest with himself, though, he hoped for more than just acquaintances. He longed for someone to look for him in a crowded room, someone who wanted to know him past the persona he was already beginning to carve out. That hope, quiet and stubborn, pushed him to try again every time.
He couldn’t tell you what possessed him to choose Ilya Rozanov as his target for the competition. Maybe it was the fact that the Russian’s name was brought up constantly, a prodigy the likes of which Russia had not seen in a while. Maybe it was the fact that, when he wasn’t on the ice, there was a quiet presence to Rozanov. Not to say he wasn’t rowdy and playful like his teammates, but outside of that, when he was alone and maybe thought no one was looking at him, Rozanov’s face would shutter, and this mile-long stare would take over, seemingly lost in thought. Shane wanted to know what he thought about in those moments.
Whatever it was that drove him to follow Ilya outside that day, Shane was just happy that he had gotten the courage to introduce himself and at least attempt to follow through with the conversation despite the awkwardness of it all. Thankfully, Ilya found his awkwardness to be part of his charm.
None of that, though, helped with his current issue: figuring out what that gift would be. It gnawed at him, the sense that whatever he chose had to somehow live up to the enormity of their shared years. He could feel the weight of it in his chest, as if the right gift could let him say everything he’d never been able to put into words. The pressure made him second guess every idea, afraid that nothing he offered would be enough to honor what they had built together.
They hadn’t done gifts in the past, not for this anniversary at least, but 15 years felt like too big a number to just pass by with their regular routine of staying in, fucking, and lazing around the house as they’d done in the past.
He wanted to make it special to commemorate the moment that changed the course of his life. He also didn’t want it to be anything generic. Generic gifts, while convenient, were never his thing, but he doubted he could walk into a store and find something that captured “it’s-been-15-years-since-I-saw-you-for-the-first-time-and-i-felt-a-part-of-my-soul-finally-settle.” He doubted Hallmark made a card for that.
Sitting at his desk in the office, Shane opened up a tab on his computer. Like everything else in his life, Shane knew he needed a plan to make sense of it all. So he sat, running through the lists of things he knew of what Ilya liked and what he didn’t, jotting notes down of things he knew he wanted but wouldn’t buy himself, or things he had mentioned in passing.
So caught up in his typing, he hadn’t realized how much time had actually passed since he sat down. It wasn’t until the door to the office suddenly opened, accompanied by the sound of chiming that always followed Anya and her happiest trots, that Shane looked up and noticed how the room had darkened around him.
“You have been in here a while,” Ilya leaned against the door frame, squinting into the darkness of the office before Shane turned on his desk lamp, a warm glow providing some clarity.
“Yeah, I guess I just lost track of time,” He said, hoping his voice didn’t sound too suspicious. The last thing he needed was for his gift to be revealed before he even figured out what it was.
Ilya only hummed in response, a smile taking over his face as he watched Shane’s hand still moving within Anya’s fur. She would demand pets until she felt you had fully made up for not giving her the attention she needed. Who were they to deny her?
“The weather is nice,” Ilya started after a moment longer of admiring the scene in front of him, “We can build boring fire again. End the night outside.”
It wasn’t often that he asked for this. Shane was usually the one who suggested they step out of the cottage, citing the fresh air as good for them, the sounds of the outside world settling as calming for their overstimulated nervous systems, and a million other things he had read on one of his healthy-mind-and-body deep dives. If he was being honest with himself, he just preferred the way the light from the fire lit Ilya’s features, making him look closer to a god from the stories he read in high school than the man he truthfully was. If the thought also turned him on a bit, well, that was between him and his mind.
Looking at him now, though, he could see that there was something more to Ilya, a kind of heaviness to him that only crept in during brief periods now. Sometimes there was a subtle droop to Ilya’s shoulders, or a distant, unfocused look in his eyes, and if he were fighting his way up from somewhere deep and unseen, He would move more slowly, words caught on the tip of his tongue, and Shane knew he was navigating old habits and sadness, trying to avoid saying things that would only hurt them both. Ilya’s depression was no longer a secret to him. Like every other thing in his life, he had researched it in the quiet moments he could steal for himself, not wanting to pressure Ilya into having to explain the darkest parts of his mind.
He had read as much as he could about depression and helping your partner through it. He watched YouTube videos, dived into Reddit boards, and even read medical journal articles he could get his hands on. He wanted to know everything he could about depression without forcing Ilya to take on the task of having to explain it to him. He had dismissed the signs before, allowing Ilya’s reassurance to soothe his own concerns, and that had almost broken them. He refused to allow that to happen again. Of course, he knew depression manifested in everyone differently, and no amount of reading or listening to professionals would prepare him for exactly what Ilya needed. So he studied his husband like he studied the way he played; monitored his moods and tells the way he studied other teams’ power plays.
Now, he was grateful for it. He could see the way he was holding himself, the way his shoulders, while seemingly relaxed, were stiff, as if he held himself in an imitation of his usual posture, then maybe Shane wouldn’t notice. Shane always did, though. There was no one in the world who knew his husband better than he did.
“Of course,” He responded quietly, already moving to get up from his desk, ignoring Anya’s small whines of protest as his hand moved from her fur. “How about you get the firewood ready?”
With a nod, Ilya slowly backed out of the room, gently calling back Anya to join him on his trek outside.
Shane took his time closing his computer, making sure he had saved all the links to the tabs he had opened, just in case. He could think about this later. Right now, his husband wanted to spend time cuddling outside by the fire and he’d be damned if he missed out on that opportunity.
Outside, the sky had melted into the purple and orangey hues of the evening, the heat of the day slowly seeping out, changing into a comfortable, syrupy warmth that could only be found during summer nights.
Ilya had already begun setting up the firepit, laying the wood the way Shane had shown him a few times, despite his grumbling about wood burning regardless of the way it was set. He couldn’t keep the smile off his face as he watched him murmur quietly to Anya as he worked, constantly talking to her so she wouldn’t feel like he was neglecting her.
“You know, one day she’s going to reply back to you, then what’ll you do?”
“I will keep it secret, obviously.”His tone of fond exasperation suggested that Ilya thought that particular question was one of Shane’s sillier ones. “They would take her and do experiments on her. How will I protect her then? No, if she can talk, then it’ll be our secret.”
“Do I get to be in on this secret?” He wanted to keep this game going a bit longer, to live in this sweet silliness they didn’t always get the chance to play in.
“Maybe. Sometimes you refuse to give her extra treats when she is especially good. That makes me question your loyalty.”
Shane couldn’t help but laugh at that comment, delighting in the way that Ilya’s own joined his a moment later. Hearing his laughter, even this small, quieter version of it, felt like a win to him. It softened his features, the mask he usually wore around others melting into a closer approximation of the man Shane had come to love.
No one had ever found him funny, not in the ways others around him could make their peers laugh. He was too stiff, and his tone often caused his jokes to fall flat, no matter how hard he tried. Eventually, he gave up trying. It wasn't until Ilya— until the way his eyes crinkled in the corner when he really got going, or the way he always tried to cover his mouth, as if his laughter was something that needed to be hidden—that Shane felt funny. Ilya understood him. Always caught the humor behind Shane's words. If they were in public and Shane had said something particularly funny, their eyes would meet for a split second before both breaking into laughter, fueled by the sound of each other’s joy.
It was sometimes hard to reach Ilya on days when the world felt heavier. On days like that, he knew it was easier to just be there for him, a silent support when he couldn’t hold himself up under the weight of his thoughts.
From his own experience, when things in the world got too loud, and Shane’s worries threatened to unravel him, it was Ilya who would quietly join him on the couch, slide a comforting arm around his shoulders, and pull him close until his breathing steadied and some of the weight seemed to lift. Their support had grown into a careful balance, each learning to care for the other in turn.
Getting comfortable, he reached for Ilya, pulling him down to lie on the bench with his head in Shane’s lap.
Shane was grateful they got to have more nights like this. After their outing, when word about them as a couple had exploded and they’d found their faces plastered across headlines and social media, it felt impossible that they would ever return to that same kind of peace. Suddenly, every detail of their lives was up for public consumption —interview requests flooded in, strangers debated the legitimacy of their relationship online, and even teammates started treating them differently, as if they weren’t the same men they had been playing with for years. While he would never say he preferred keeping their relationship a secret, there was something to be said about the way the secret afforded them a level of privacy Shane sometimes missed. Now, everyone wanted a piece of them, wanted them to be public figures in a way they had never been used to, and were desperately searching for signs of their relationship everywhere. They couldn’t go out in public without cameras flashing, and truthfully, it had become something that gave Shane anxiety.
Just the thought of another moment of theirs, something intimate and only meant for the two of them, going viral all over again made him queasy.
Here at the cottage, though, where it was just the two of them and Anya? There was no room for anxiety. He had this place built for himself —a fortress of solitude, the press had once called it. Now, with dog toys strewn about the living room and sugary snacks taking up space in the cupboards, there was no way that anyone could consider calling it anything other than their home.
Gently, Shane began to play with Ilya’s curls, the soft ringlets wrapping around his finger as the soft murmur of their conversation lulled the last thoughts of the gift away.
It was not uncommon for their conversations to shift to heavier topics. They were each other’s confidants. When Shane was overwhelmed with the pressures he faced, he would seek out Ilya, craving the comfort of his arms wrapped around him, squeezing tightly. It was one of the few ways his mind quieted, and in those moments, he could feel the lock on his emotions open, and the words would spill from his mouth without so much as a second thought from him.
He liked to think he offered the same to Ilya.
He filled the silence around them with words, understanding that Ilya might not feel up to talking as he usually would, but knowing how much he hates silence. He could offer him this, though. Words found him slowly, but soon he had a stream of consciousness going, his voice a soft murmur as he watched Anya play around in the yard nearby.
“The one thing I regret,” Ilya started a moment later, after Shane’s voice had tapered off, looking into the fire as he had so many years ago on a night similar to this, “is not taking more of my things. I kept some of my mother’s favorite sweaters. What was left of her favorite perfume. Some pictures. They were in my apartment, so my father never knew. After that fight with Alexei, I-I went to the apartment and took whatever was close. I left and did not return. I could not.”
Shane couldn’t see his face, not with the way Ilya was lying with his head in Shane’s lap, but he could imagine the quiet devastation that must have clouded it. How anyone could think his husband was cold-hearted was beyond him.
He tried to imagine it, leaving his home country and knowing that the life he chose, the man he chose to give his heart to, would cause him to lose a connection to his motherland. He couldn’t imagine leaving everything behind, without even the option to get things returned. Did he miss it? Was there something in Russia that Ilya had left behind that, in the moment, felt too small to grab, but now he missed dearly?
It was in this moment, with Ilya’s curls between his fingers and the words hanging in the air, that inspiration struck him for the perfect gift. As Ilya spoke of what he’d left behind, Shane found his mind racing. What if there was a way to bring a piece of Ilya’s past, a piece of his mother, back to him, even at this distance? He imagined tracking down old photographs from Russia, something meaningful that Ilya thought was lost forever. Maybe with Svetlana’s help and the right contacts, there was a chance to recover photos, pieces of his mother hidden away in drawers and albums. It would be a challenge. He would need to coordinate with Svetlana, potentially see if she could connect him with someone in Russia willing to help him search and retrieve what they could. It would take time and money, but as he felt Ilya take in a shuddering breath, a last-ditch effort to control his emotions, his mind was made up. He didn’t care if doing this would drain his accounts or take up what was left of his free time. His husband had loved him, had made so many changes in his life to ensure they could have a future together. He would give him the world if he could.
For now, though, he could only plan. Shane would have a solid few things to add to his schedule over the next few days. He was already mentally drafting his message to Svetlana, Ilya’s last connection to Russia and the one with the best connections, and preparing for the weeks of secret-keeping he would have to do.
But for now, he let himself settle into the quiet comfort of the evening, his husband’s head resting in his lap, the gentle weight grounding him. The first crackled softly beside them, casting shifting gold and amber over Ilya’s face. The warm, smoky air was occasionally interrupted by the distant sound of Anya’s paws in the grass. Shane wound Ilya’s curls around his fingers, memorizing the feeling of being together. Tomorrow, there would be plans, and secrets, and phone calls. But right now, there was just this.
♡⊹˚₊🏒₊˚⊹♡
Ilya was forgetting his mother's face. Not entirely, no. He didn't think — or rather, he hoped — that would ever happen. The smaller details, though? Whether she had the mole underneath her right eye or her left? Whether her dimples would appear when she smiled or only when she laughed? The way her lips would curl into a smile that he was sure was just for him? Those details were beginning to slip, no matter how desperately he tried to hold onto them.
He'd never admit it to Svetlana, or to Shane, or even his therapist, but these small pieces of her that kept slipping slowly chipped away at his heart.
It was different from his general grief over her loss. That was ever-present, hanging around his neck and tapping over his heart in the same way her necklace did. This was different. This was struggling to remember if she smelled like vanilla or flowery after she sprayed herself with the perfume she saved for special occasions. This was forgetting if she liked to hum to herself as she worked like he did. This was forgetting essential parts of the woman who raised him and being unable to reconcile the facts he knew about her with the romanticized version he had created to comfort himself.
What type of son was he?
Shaking his head to clear his thoughts, Ilya forced himself to focus on wiping the table down. There was no way he would allow his mind to ruin his anniversary.
The dinner was sweet, candlelight illuminating the smiles on their faces as Anya sat nearby, eyes trained in hopes that one of them would drop food. Shane would usually take care of the dishes while Ilya did the wipe down of the kitchen, but he had stepped away, saying he had forgotten something in his office.
“Hey,” Shane’s voice was soft behind him and while that had always piqued his interest, the hand hidden behind his back made Ilya’s curiosity spike, “Can you join me on the couch for a bit?”
Quirking a brow, Ilya nodded, turning back to the task at hand. The quicker he finished, the quicker he could see what Shane had hidden.
A few minutes later, Ilya made his way to the couch, pausing only to scratch Anya behind her ears, before he joined Shane. The coffee table was set with a small candle, stolen from the candlelit dinner they just had. Next to it, Shane placed a box, wrapped neatly in calming blue paper.
Ilya glanced at the box with apprehension, running through previous conversations to see if they had mentioned exchanging gifts.
“I promise you didn’t forget anything.” Shane started with a roll of his eyes, before he cleared his throat, his fingers beginning to pick at his cuticles. “But it’s for you —something I hope…” he faltered, swallowing hard. “I hope it brings you a little bit closer to the things — the people you miss.”
Ilya’s fingers trembled as he peeled back the wrapping, careful and methodical, almost afraid to open the gift. The lid gave a soft sign as it was lifted. Inside, nestled in folded tissue, was a leather-bound photo album, the deep brown cover embossed with his mother’s name is gold Cyrillic script. The leather was soft beneath his finger, new but already so loved, and around the binding, a silk ribbon in white and navy —his mother’s favorite colors —was tied in a simple bow.
For a heartbeat, Ilya seemed unable to move. Then, very slowly, he reached for the cover.
Ilya’s hands trembled slightly as he opened the album, the obviously new leather creaking quietly. He found himself slowing, fingertips hesitating on the first chipped corner of a photo, as if rushing might shatter the spell holding her face in these pages.
There, on the first page, was a candid photo of his mother he had never seen before. His mother’s eyes were half-closed in laughter, head thrown back, sunlight catching in the gold of her hair. He reached out, pressing a thumb softly to the edge of the photo. The memory hit: her laughter, light and ringing, carried throughout the living room while his father was at work and he was brave enough to play with his toys outside of his bedroom. He could almost hear it now, the lilt and music in her voice. A sting caught at the back of his throat. The ache of missing her felt sharper, but also warmer. He tried to memorize every little detail before his breath caught.
There it was. The mole right underneath her left eye.
For a long moment, neither of them spoke. The only sound in the room was the gentle thumping of Anya’s paws as she circled and flopped at their feet and the quiet shudder of Ilya’s breath as he gently brushed his thumb over the image.
“Oh, Shane,” He could barely get the words out before he was hiding his face, trying to gain better control of his emotions. “How…how did you get these?”
This was the first time he’d seen a new picture of his mother in years. After her death, his father had hidden most of her pictures away. He imagined he had thrown them out in one of his fits of anger. The only one that remained was of the last family picture they had taken together. Stoic and posed, forever frozen in the version of themselves that the public eye could accept. That version, he mused whenever he walked past its large frame in the hall, only existed within the camera lens. It was months before she would take her own life.
“I hired somebody.” The words came out stilted, in the way it usually did when Shane was trying not to panic over a situation. It was the closest he could get to rambling. “Svetlana helped. She made the connection for me because I was worried something might go wrong if I were the one making the request. I just put together whatever they gave me.”
Ilya closed his eyes for a moment, the album pressed to his chest, his expression raw and unguarded. Shane took his hand and squeezed it tightly. It was a simple gesture, but in that moment, it told Ilya everything he could not bring himself to say aloud.
Setting the album gently aside, Ilya wrapped his arms around Shane, yanking him close to him. He hoped Shane could feel the overwhelming love and gratitude that was coursing through him.
As much as he loved Canada and the freedom it afforded him, there were moments when Ilya would find himself longing for the home he had willingly given up. Sometimes the ache came out of nowhere, triggered by a turn in the weather or the sudden scent of black bread from a corner bakery. He missed the feel of cold Moscow mornings, the brisk air nipping at his cheeks as he hurried across icy streets, shoulders hunched in his worn wool coat. In Canada, the streets were unfamiliar, the traditions new, and though he cherished the life he had built, the memories of Russia sometimes tugged at him with the sharpness of longing.
No. That wasn’t exactly right.
He understood he was safer here. He understood that, had he stayed, he would not have Shane, but there were moments when winter would settle around them and he would find himself wishing he could walk to his mother’s grave. He would often find himself there when things were particularly troubling for him.
Many people who learned of the tragedy around them shared the sentiment that she was always with him and that it brought him comfort most days, but there was something about being able to visit her final resting place, to leave flowers, to talk to her. Leaving that behind—leaving her—was one of the only things he regretted.
He knew Shane couldn’t give that to him. They both knew that Ilya could never return to Russia. And yet, here was his amazing husband offering him something close.
“Спасибо” Thank you. , he whispered, his gratitude only able to roll off his tongue in Russian at first. He was so overwhelmed with the feeling of loving and being loved in return that he could only repeat the word over and over, whispering his gratitude into Shane’s skin.
He could feel the arms around him tighten and fingers slowly began to trace up and down his back, comfort and love sweeping through him with each motion.
“It’s the least I could do,” He heard, muffled as it was into his hair.
“This,” He pulled back, catching Shane’s eyes as he continued, “this is everything, солнышко.” My sun. He didn’t think the word fully captured the weight of his emotions. The overwhelming love and adoration he felt for the man in front of him.
Pulling him close, Ilya could only kiss him, hoping to pour the love he felt through the kiss itself.
“I love you,” He whispered as they pulled apart, the tears in his eyes blurring the image of Shane in front of him, “I love you so much. You have no idea what you just did for me.”
Shane swallowed once, a tell of his when he was trying to get a hold of his emotions.
“Can you,” He started after clearing his throat, “can you tell me about her?”
Ilya never hid Irina, not purposefully, but even after so many years, talking about her always felt difficult. He was working on it with Dr. Galina, wanting to share what he remembered about his mother with Shane, but progress was slow. He was just beginning to be able to drop measured mentions of her in conversation, and even that sent a pang of grief to his heart. Still, therapy was helping.
He remembered the first time, a few months ago, when he managed to share a story about his mother’s breakfast without freezing up or trying to deflect his initial comments. Shane had looked at him in surprise and then quiet understanding, offering a gentle squeeze to his hand, and they finished eating in a small precious peace. It wasn’t much, but moments like that reminded Ilya he was getting better at letting the memories come out, even if it was slow and awkward.
The pang was still there, ever present in the way it had always been, but not as heavy.
Looking at Shane, at the eagerness and desire to get to know another part of Ilya that had been locked away by grief, there was no way he could deny him.
“Of course,” He breathed, cupping his husband's face and pulling him in for a quick peck, before turning his attention back to the album.
Pulling the album back onto his lap, he opened the cover again, prepared for the flood of emotion he’d get at seeing his mother’s face. He moved past the first picture, which was clearly a professional shot taken when she was in high school. The second photo he knew had to have come from Svetlana herself. In it, his mother was laughing, dimples prominent, as she crouched, Ilya clearly at her side, while a younger Svetlana looked on, delighted. He could remember that day. His mother had taken them outside as the men began to talk, not a place for children or women to get in the way. Alexei had been allowed to stay, old enough to be in the room, though not old enough to have an opinion.
He had only just begun to take a liking to Svetlana, shy as he was at that age. She intimidated him. Whenever they were alone, she never held back. Often talking a mile a minute and saying the first thing that came to mind, Ilya, who had always been informed that children were to be seen and not heard, couldn’t understand the carefree nature of the girl in front of him. Irina loved her all the same and would always make sure to listen attentively as she spoke, often trying to coax him into the conversation. He couldn’t tell you what Svetlana had said to make his mother laugh, or to have his face scrunch in the jealous way only a child’s could, but he could hear the echo of her laughter in his ears.
“I had to be maybe 7 here. Svetlana always came with her father. She has no siblings, and I guess her father wanted us to be friends. My mom would always take us outside while the men talked. I was a shy kid.” Ilya playfully glared at the sound of disbelief that came from his left.
Shane put his hands up placatingly, miming zipping his lips.
“As I was saying before rude interruption. I was a shy kid, but my mother was determined that we would be friends. So, she would talk to Svetlana and look over at me, trying to get me to say something. She’d say something like ‘Как ты думаешь, Ильюша' What do you think, Ilyusha? ” He could feel himself softening his tone, mimicking the way his mother would try to draw him into conversation. The memory was one he had almost forgotten, buried deep underneath the ‘Rozanov’ persona he had created for himself after her death.
“Did it work?” Shane’s voice was just as soft, as if he spoke too loudly, Ilya would suddenly decide to lock this piece of himself away once more. He didn’t think he would ever be able to hide this away again, not from Shane at least. How could he when he had gone above and beyond to get a small piece of home — a small piece of his mother — for him?
“Sometimes,” Ilya couldn’t help but chuckle as he remembered the many times he had heard the phrase, “You know I am stubborn. That has never changed.”
“What? Ilya Rozanov was born stubborn? There’s no way,” The deadpan tone did little to mask the teasing glint in Shane’s eyes. How anyone could think this man was robotic was beyond him.
“Shane!” His hand slapped against his chest, a dramatic gasp left his lips as he feigned shock. “You wound me! My own husband, spreading this — this slander!”
They sat together, laughter giving way to a gentle quiet, the photo album open across their knees. The flicker of the fire played across their faces. Ilya leaned into Shane, settling his head against his shoulder, feeling exhaustion and warmth settle together in his chest.
For a long moment, there was nothing but the quiet sounds of the room and the occasional turn of a page. Grief and love mingled, until Ilya found he could breathe a little easier.
Shane kept his hand resting over Ilya’s, thumb brushing soothing circles against his knuckles. He watched Ilya closely, his eyes bouncing from the page back to Ilya’s face.
“I hope this gives you back a part of her you were missing,” Shane said quietly, emotion shining through each word.
Ilya nodded, not trusting his voice.
He closed the album after another careful look, then rested his forehead against Shane’s. “You did more than that. Thank you.”
They remained there for a while, letting the weight of the gift settle comfortably around them. Neither needed to speak, basking in the presence of the other.
Eventually, Anya nudged her way onto the couch beside them, curling up in the space of Ilya’s lap. Shane pressed a kiss to Ilya’s temple, his lips lingering for a moment. The hardships of the years, the sacrifices, the ache of loss and victory all came together in this moment.
They simply held each other, feeling, at least for tonight, completely whole.