Chapter Text
Shane saw a lot of himself in Luca.
For all the lighthearted chirps they got — even from their own team — about Luca has two biological dads and they are Shane and Ilya, it might as well have been true. A starry-eyed little rook who rose through the ranks unbelievably quickly; who always seemed a little too eager, a little too earnest; who’d blame himself after games gone wrong yet never take the credit for ones gone right.
He’d been like Ilya in hiding what was going on behind closed doors; been like Shane in that he held this deep-rooted need to prove himself ‘worthy’ of taking up even the slightest amount of space in any room.
It’d been a combined effort from Shane and Ilya and the rest of the Cens to bolster his confidence — they’d all pile on to hug him tight after any goals, no matter how fierce the blush or how loud his flustered pleas to stop embarrassing me. Holmsy and Young were amazing at hyping him up without being told; Hazy almost seemed to take notes so he could tell Luca exactly what went right with his play in each game, or assure him that someone else fucked up that assist with a pointedly raised eyebrow at Barrett, who’d laugh it off easily.
There were some other distinctly similar qualities they shared that weren’t as easy to mend as Luca’s doubt. The way he’d laugh a few seconds behind the others, like he wasn’t sure why but he knew he had to fit in; the way he’d look so incredibly lost in some conversations, eyebrows scrunched before he’d inevitably give up; the way he’d come too harshly to his fellow rooks’ defences at little chirps before having to be told it’s a joke, Haasy, we don’t actually think he’s a shit player. It’s sarcasm, Haasy, we know he didn’t fuck it up on purpose. I don’t know why you’re overreacting so hard, dude.
Or how he’d behave at Hazy’s barbecues and their other semi-regular gatherings. More often than not he’d excuse himself from the group — whether they were in the living room or the garden — and Shane would find him fifteen minutes later in the kitchen with his head in his hands. Just a headache, he’d tell them, smile tight-lipped, or I’m just tired when Ilya rather bluntly told him he ought to go and get his head checked for how often it seemed to hurt. He’d zone out, picking at the rips on his jeans until someone spoke directly to him, at which point he’d look up like a deer caught in the fucking headlights.
Apparently, Holmsy wore too much of his new cologne, so they found out when he got rather offended that Luca wouldn’t stand within six feet of him. Shane noticed him holding his breath whenever anyone sprayed any kind of deodorant or antiperspirant until long after the smell should’ve dissipated. Luca’s own (and his soaps) were unscented, or the least intrusive thing they could be — think ‘fresh linen’, ‘clean air’ or something sweet and mild like jasmine or pear blossom. He’d get chirped for having such feminine scents, which Shane tried to shut down as quickly as possible with Ilya’s help, who walked in with vanilla body wash and pomegranate deodorant and everyone had promptly turned their attention to him instead.
He didn’t like borrowing people’s clothes. He’d turn down impromptu sleepovers, or at hotels he’d scurry back to his own bedroom to get his pyjamas when everyone else just chucked on an old shirt of someone else’s. He’d only borrow Shane’s — which he quickly worked out, upon washing Luca’s clothes while he stayed with them, was a combination of Shane’s unscented detergent and fabric softener, and the fact that like Shane, Luca had cut every tag from his shirts and pants with fierce precision.
Sometimes, it didn’t go so well.
Sometimes, like now, Shane was helpless to watch as it all bubbled over and spilled out, scalding hot rage surrounding him in a tight circle.
The others were normally pretty good at leaving him alone, no matter how confused they were at what the fuck was going on with Haasy when he suddenly got snappy. Ilya and Shane were there if not, directing their attention away from Luca’s shutdown and giving him the space he wanted and needed. He’d come back minutes later with a mumbled apology to Ilya before he was back on his way.
But today was different. He’d pissed Nicky off after a chirp that Shane was sure came out much harsher than it’d been intended, the telltale stress already etched deep into the lines on his face. So when Luca tried to walk away — or, well, skate over to the boards — midway through practice, Young hadn’t been inclined to let him leave.
“The fuck is your problem, Luca?!” Young had yelled, skating close behind him and following him off the ice. “You can’t just say shit like that and expect people to be fine with it?”
“Fuck off, Nicky.”
“Nah, don’t Nicky me now!” he scoffed. “Call me by my fucking name, yeah? If you wanna fight, get back on the fucking ice and let’s go. Can’t get mommy Hollander and daddy Rozanov to look after you all the time.”
“Young!” Ilya barked.
The rest of the team were drifting over, confused as to why their closest rooks were suddenly fighting like goddamn hormonal teenagers.
Young didn’t listen to Ilya’s warning. He kept going, even as Luca flinched away from the ever-increasing volume of his voice. He kept going until he grabbed Luca’s shoulder — and the younger shoved him off, hard, Nicky hitting the floor with a thud.
“I said, fuck off!” Luca shrieked. It was only once he turned around that they all registered how he looked.
Not angry at all, but scared, big blue eyes flicking around the room and the team staring at him and Young on the floor and Ilya already at Young’s side. His cheeks were flushed and his chest was heaving and his ungloved hands curled into fists at his sides, before he turned tail and ran into the locker room.
Fuck, Shane thought. Too late to stop his shutdown getting any worse — they’d give him space for those, but this Luca looked like he was seconds away from screaming and Shane rushed after him without a second thought.
He’d hurt Nicky.
He’d said something on the ice — didn’t even remember what it was now — that had set him off, then Nicky had started going off on one, then Luca had walked away like his Papa told him to whenever he got mad like that. But Young had followed, and he’d grabbed Luca’s shoulder and it had burned and all he remembered was Young laid out on the floor, Ilya’s stony glare from his side and everyone looking at him and Luca had run where he’d be safe. He’d torn off his helmet and thrown it somewhere and sat himself down on the bench to try to chill the fuck out.
But now Hollzy was in here, and he felt decidedly not safe anymore. He couldn’t read his expression, couldn’t make himself look at Shane’s face for long enough to even try. He’d thought Shane wouldn’t be like Mama and Papa, maybe Luca wouldn’t get scolded; but there were so many unknowns right now that he couldn’t be sure, and couldn’t help but scoot himself further away from Hollzy’s towering form.
“Luca?”
Did he sound mad? Oh, fuck, that was definitely maybe probably how Shane sounded when he was mad — it was harder to tell with him than with Ilya but Luca was sure that was it. He was mad about this, maybe, that Luca was so fucking useless, or maybe mad about the fact he hurt Young and run away. His eyes burned no matter how much he tried to blink the tears away.
Luca knew there’d be a conversation about it, he just didn’t expect it so soon and he didn’t need to do that right now. He wanted to talk to them later, apologise when he didn’t feel like he was imploding, give his sorries properly instead of babbled out in a useless, terrified string as Hollzy walked closer.
“You’re good,” Shane murmured. It was the softest voice anyone had used toward him today, and once his own panicked words ceased his reassurances plunged the room into a good kind of quiet. “Hey, Haasy, breathe. I’m not here about Nicky; I’m here to help you.”
Luca scrubbed a hand over his wet cheeks to hurriedly dry the tears that had gathered there.
Help him? He didn’t need help. He needed to be left the fuck alone — that’s what Mama had done with him, that’s what he’d done with himself, that’s what had always worked. Whether he’d find himself a supply closet, or a quiet corner, or a bathroom or anywhere, shutting himself away for long enough usually resolved things.
…Except Shane had turned the lights off, the lack of fluorescent buzzing an immediate aid to the headache blooming behind his temples. He’d crouched in front of him, and the firm hands he placed on Luca’s knees were cool and soothing against the fire crawling hot over his skin, underneath his godforsaken jersey and padding and base layers and fuck knew what else.
How did Shane just seem to know?
“You’re good here,” he repeated, already starting to make quick and efficient work of Luca’s gear. He didn’t want to think too long about the fact that Shane had to do it for him; his brain barely pushed past the haze enough to obey his instructions of skate up on my knee, good boy, arms up, stand up for a second, good job. Nor the fact that Shane always took his gear off when he wasn’t feeling well, that the blanket soon draped over his shoulders was Shane’s ‘emergency blanket’, as Ilya called it. That he was sat in front of his assistant captain shivering in his fucking boxers.
The fabric of the blanket was so buttery soft. It reminded Luca of the one on his own bed at his apartment, the one decorating the guest room at the Hollander-Rozanov house that Shane had bought after noticing Luca’s hands lingering a little too long. He’d liked the texture; at the time it just felt nice, but now it felt like the one of the only tolerable things in the world. Fluffy but silky, too, textured enough to erase the memory of how god-awful his base layers had felt against his skin. If he cracked his blurry eyes open, just a little… lit by Shane’s dim phone screen it was a dusty blue striped pattern, fluffy. He drew it tighter around his shoulders, the chill of the room against warm skin unbearable.
“Cold, isn’t it?”
Luca nodded and Shane smiled, having gotten down to his own base layers at some point when Luca wasn’t paying attention. He kept his voice quiet when he spoke, but he didn’t whisper — Luca despised the awful hissing noise of a whisper more than he’d have hated being shouted at, and he thought Shane must have known that, too, somehow.
He looked a little apprehensive before he spoke again. “Now, I’d like you to try something. You might say no, and that’s okay. But sometimes it really helps me if Ilya hugs me really tight. Wanna give it a go?”
…Like his weighted blanket at home, Luca supposed. He liked that. He liked the heavy mountains of blankets Shane kept on the couch, liked burying himself under seven, eight layers in the winter, giggled when Ilya laid on top of them all and squished him further against the couch cushions.
Did he want to be touched? Not always. He hadn’t wanted Nicky to touch him because he didn’t know he was going to. He didn’t want to be grabbed, even though his touch was feather-light and maybe that had burned more than if he’d squeezed Luca’s shoulder.
But he’d seen the kind of hug Shane was talking about before. He’d always felt slightly jealous of them — he daren’t randomly ask any of the guys on the team for a hug, couldn’t risk them poking fun of him, and he couldn’t ask Shane and Ilya for more than they’d already given him. But every time Ilya held Shane like that, one hand cradling the back of his head as though to protect him, squeezing firm, watching Shane melt and the tension set in his posture dissipate… Luca wanted that, too, sometimes, especially times like now.
He nodded.
So Shane sat down beside him, herded Luca into his lap as the younger battled the blush that fought to rise to his cheeks, wrapped his arms around his back over top of his blanket-cape and squeezed.
Immediately Luca’s whole world shifted.
Not tight enough to hurt, never enough to hurt, but firm enough to feel the pressure. Feel the frantic rate of his heart thudding against his ribs from the adrenaline and the pain and the terror he’d been drenched in since this whole thing started; enough to feel those things seeping away under the weight of Shane’s embrace, under the hands rubbing hard circles over the expanse of his back. Even Shane’s base layers were soft against his bare skin, nothing like his own, a softness he could hide his face and tears away in and pretend the outside world didn’t exist.
Shane’s embrace was warm, firm, and most importantly, safe.
…Wow.
“Good?” Shane asked, quietly, next to Luca’s ear. Luca just nodded, sank against him and into his sturdy arms and soft clothes further and Shane laughed softly. “I know, right? Like magic. You’re doing so well for me, chéri, just keep breathing.”
Breathing. He could do that.
In and out, just like Shane was modelling for him. Four seconds in, he told Luca, hold, then breathe out. Until it didn’t rattle in his chest or wheeze in his throat anymore, until he felt a little bit more normal.
”Does that feel better?”
Luca was hesitant to nod in case Shane let go. He wasn’t ready to let go, as selfish as he felt. But he couldn’t lie — and in response, Shane just smiled with a little I’m glad and left Luca exactly where he was.
He didn’t know how long they actually sat there. Long enough for Luca’s knees pressing on the bench to start to ache; long enough for Shane to start rocking them, slowly, side-to-side, murmuring something in French that Luca couldn’t be bothered to translate. Long enough for his bones to turn to jelly in his limbs.
And long enough for the door to open and close.
Shane had to soothe him as he tensed. “Just Ilya,” he said.
Ilya?
Like that was meant to be better. Ilya was mad at him at the very least, if he didn’t hate him; Luca didn’t even have to look up to feel his presence as he came to sit on the bench. He’d seen Ilya’s glare pointed straight at him earlier — you’d have to have been blind not to notice the way it seemed to bore into your soul. He’d hurt Young, and that was the thing Ilya was always adamant about — they’re teammates, they need to work with each other, not against each other.
God, and he was sitting on Shane’s lap, the hell would Ilya say about that?! Had Luca fucked it up? Everything?
The chill of the room and the realisation of where they were set in very quickly. Luca should’ve at least sat upright, tried to explain himself no matter how heavy his tongue felt in his mouth and how words moved like tar through his brain — he owed them that much at least, surely.
“No, no,” Ilya said when he tried. He pressed a firm hand to the small of Luca’s back before he could panic — firm, never gentle. “You stay there, malysh. Is comfy, yes?”
Luca settled back, reluctantly, and Ilya gave him a satisfied smile.
He turned to Shane. “On byl peregruzhen?”
“Da,” Shane answered. Then translated for Luca’s benefit: “Overwhelmed. Just a little bit, huh? But we fixed it, no drama.”
No drama, his ass. He lifted his face from Shane’s shoulder to look at Ilya, the expression etched into his features that Luca couldn’t read. The first thing out of his mouth since he’d come in here, however slurred it was from his heavy tongue and scrambled brain, was: “I didn’t mean to hurt Nicky.”
Shane, kindly, squeezed him tighter in comfort.
Ilya just paused for a moment before he snorted with laughter.
He ruffled Luca’s hair with a warm hand and a smile still on his face, grin stretched ear-to-ear. “Hurt him? Malysh, I don’t think you have ever hurt even a fly in your life, let alone big strong hockey player!” He chuckled again. “Young is fine, yes?”
However offended Luca ought to have been at… whatever Ilya was insinuating about him, all he could feel was relief, like a cold spring in the middle of the blazing fire of everything that had been consuming him. “…Really?”
Ilya nodded. “Ah, a little bit surprised, but not hurt at all. He and the guys are just worried about what got our precious little Luca so feisty, hm?”
His hand joined Shane’s in comforting him, combing through the tangled mess of curls on his head and occasionally dipping down to wipe a tear from his cheek and Luca realised that his brain, for the first time, was startlingly quiet.
Perhaps for the first time, he’d escaped one of these fits without hurting himself or being shouted at, met with disgust or confusion or anything in between. He’d escaped from nails digging deep into his own palms, bottom lip bitten hard enough to bleed, tearing his own fucking hair out — and he’d escaped into the arms of the very same people who’d saved him time and time again.
He curled tighter into Shane’s embrace.
They would sit there in the quiet and the dark, Shane and Ilya’s occasional conversation a comforting rumble with his ear pressed to Shane’s neck, until Luca felt like enough of a person to untangle himself from their arms and hands.
He would sit squished between them on the locker room benches after, Ilya’s gear and Shane’s soft thermals pressing into his skin until he managed to calm his brain down enough and gather the courage to put on his godforsaken gear and go back to the ice. To apologise to Nicky, apologise to Coach Wiebe and get back to practice.
(…If he walked holding Shane’s hand until the very last moment before they walked into the main arena, nobody had to know.)